DEAN R.KOONTZ. SOFT COME THE DRAGONS

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 receiver. “Did I act correctly under the circum­stances?”

“Yes. Yes, you did.”

“Then perhaps you could tell me just what those cir­cumstances are. I should know more about the situation.”

Ti filled the machine-man in on the death of its owner and all that Ti had learned about the prospective killer. When he had finished talking, he was worn out, and he fancied the receiver talkbox was smoking. They sat, wait­ing. Darkness came, and they turned on the low lights that flushed the room with a soft orange-red glow. At ten o’clock, Ti realized that he had not eaten anything all day— and that he was thirsty as well. But he dared not leave the receiver lest his suspect arrive while he was gone. At a quarter after eleven, then, they heard the first noise of an intruder . . .

There was a splintering of wood and a sharp thudding, the sound a door or window sill might make as it was wrenched out of its frame. The simulacrum came to its feet and stood looking about the room. “The kitchen,” he said.

Ti shifted into the kitchen. The door was indeed bowed out of its frame, shivering as something struck it heavily again. A shoulder? Klaus Margle’s shoulder, battering a way into the house? The door gave, the latch ripped loose, and the portal swung inward. Beyond floated the Hound. But that didn’t fit Margle at all! If they thought the Hound had failed— Then he understood. If the Hound had failed, Margie would send it again to try to determine why. There would be men waiting outside in the event the Hound was again unsuccessful. And the confrontation between Hound and android was near. The simulacrum came into the kitchen. The Hound detected him, lurched, whined almost like a real dog. It surged through into the gloomy kitchen and fired half a dozen darts. The pins stuck in the pseudo-flesh of the android, but the poison could do nothing to his unhuman system of wires and tubes—and he did not even bleed. The Hound swung to the left, shot six more darts up the simulacrum’s side. Again, the weapon failed to kill.

The android advanced on the Hound.

The Hound ordered its servos ahead and latched one of them around the android’s neck, thinking to strangle it. The other servo came up and battered at the artificial face. The machine-man’s nose bent into an odd angle, but it didn’t break. The android reached up and grabbed the servos, ripped them off himself. He turned, rammed the ends of the metal hands against the wall, snapping some of the fingers. Again. And again, until they were all bro­ken. The hands floated where he left them, grav plates still operational, but unable to heed the commands of their master, the Hound.

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