Glory, Glory

It was a warm spring evening. I was alone at home, sitting, standing and lying around my apartment, reading, watching the tube, going over the accounts and working a two-month-old Times Triple Crostic—I4 had fallen a little behind—when the outercom buzzer gave my signal.

"I'll get it!" I shouted simultaneously, but since I3 was closest, I3took it.

"Joe Kilborn speaking," I3 said.

"Which Joe Kilborn is this?" a guarded voice asked.

That was the standard opener. It didn't bother me2.4" anymore, but I1.3 still got annoyed sometimes. "There's only one. mister, and you're speaking to him," I3 said.

"Have I got the right number? Is this zone 709. area 266. line 3581, outercom 944-302-1513?"

"You know it is. mister. The Lucky Clover Detective Agency, Joe Kilborn sole owner and proprietor. What's your problem?"

He hesitated. They usually do. While I3 waited, I1 asked. "Who is it?"

I3 covered the speaker with my3 hand. "A client, maybe."

"Another dumb solo," I2 said irritably.

(continued on page 136) Glory, Glory (continued from page 132)

"Be tolerant," I3 replied.

"I'm sorry, Kilborn," the caller said, sounding as if he meant it. "I'm pretty edgy since.... I've got a bad problem, and you're the only ones—the only one—who can help me. Can you come to my place right away?"

"Depends on where your place is. And who you are."

"I'm Anthony Sibbrel, and the address is 614 Level 97, Eastblock."

"Sibbrel? Are you any relation to——"

"She's my daughter, Kilborn. I can't say any more over the outercom. Are you interested?"

If Glory Sibbrel is your daughter, you don't have to say more. People are interested.

I1,2,4 saw my3 eyebrows go up and started crowding around me3. I3 raised a hand, shook my3 head and said, "Interested, Sibbrel. I'll be right over."

I caught a roller just outside the building and reached Sibbrel's place before dark. Eastblock was a class neighborhood, and 97 was the classiest level in Eastblock. Even the security men at the entrance looked as if they could read and write. I tried them out with my license.

The sergeant took a quick glance and asked, "Which one of you guys is Joe Kilborn?"

"I am," I said as one man.

"Now, wait a minute," he said, reaching for his needler.

"Read the license," I2 said. "It's all there."

He glared at me2, but he read it, and the light dawned. "Clones!"

"A clone, actually," I4 corrected him politely.

"What do you mean? There's four of you."

"There's only one of me," I1 said. He stared up, uncomprehending, and I2 added, "I just happen to have eight arms and four heads. They come in handy sometimes."

The sergeant looked back and forth from me4 to the picture on the license, then back to me2.3 again. He shook his head, threw up his hands and said, "I'll tell Mr. Sibbrel you're here."

Sibbrel was eager. He answered the intercom a split second after it was connected, and I was soon on my way up, with four armed guards to escort me right to his door. He opened it himself.

"Come in, Kilborn. Come right in and make yourselves—make yourself—comfortable," Sibbrel said. He was trying hard.

I sank into a soft air chair, settled at both ends of a sofa and perched on the edge of what looked like a genuine wooden table. Sibbrel was jumpy. While he paced the rug and wrung his hands, I took a fast look around.

The room looked like the Official Glory Sibbrel Shrine and Museum. Cabinets were packed with her trophies, medals and awards. Scrolls, honorary degrees, pictures—both flats and hollies—and assorted memorabilia covered the walls. Everywhere I looked there was evidence of a grateful world and an adoring father.

Between the two huge north windows, where Sibbrel could see it when he looked up from his desk, was a life-sized hollie of the famous picture taken on America's Glory Day, just three months before. Probably more people in the world had seen that picture than had seen the noonday sun.

It was the homecoming scene. Glory was just back from Europe, still in her skintight blue flying gear. It was her first flight since the near-tragic accident a year earlier. She'd beaten Parobochek for the world chess championship earlier in the week and had stopped off at Stockholm to pick up her Nobel Prize for her discoveries in plasma physics—something to do with magnetohydrodynamic containment; I' vaguely understood it, but it was a mystery to me1,2,3.

The President was waiting to greet her and to receive her report on the meetings with the Russian leaders. The photographer had tried to be kind to the President, but all the same, she had faded into the background, dim and dumpy. Other women always looked that way around Glory Sibbrel. She was the first day of spring, set in gold.

"Someone's after my daughter, Kilborn," Sibbrel blurted in a shaky voice. He cleared his throat and went on. "I've been trying to keep it quiet, but last night was the fourth attempt. I can't handle it by myself any longer.'"

"Kidnapers? Extortionists?" I1.3 asked.

"Snip-and-runners," he said.

I2,3 gave a low whistle and I1 said, "They're bad people to have after you. Professionals, every one, and they get what they go after."

"They haven't, so far. I want you to make sure it stays that way."

"Are you positive? Snip-and-runners have ways of——I3 began.

"I'm positive," Sibbrel broke in.

"Where's Miss Sibbrel now?" I1 asked.

"She's right here in the apartment, safe."

"I'd like to talk to her," I3 said.

"She can't be disturbed, Kilborn. Doctor's strict orders. She was a little shaken up last night. It was close."

"There's an easy solution to the problem," I4 said. "You must have standing offers from every major cloning corporation in the world. Why not just accept the best offer? An authorized, legitimate duper gives its originals the best protection available. You can bet that Dittocorp or Mimix or any of the others would have an army of guards up here as soon as Miss Sibbrel signed an exclusive with them."

Sibbrel shook his head, staring off at Glory's picture. "There's more to this than just fear of a snip-and-run attack, Kilborn. Glory's protected by some of the best bodyguards in the business. She never even knew about the first three attempts. No, this is something bigger." He paused, gnawed at his lip and looked agonized. He didn't want to say any more, but he knew he had to. "What I'm telling you now is in the strictest confidence. Not a word of this is to leak, Kilborn."

"It won't," I said simultaneously.

"Last month, Glory became engaged to H. H. Harrington. She had turned him down four times before her accident, but he's a persistent man. Last month, he asked again and she said yes."

Right then, my professional ethics pinched. For this news, I could name my price to any fax in the business. I could picture the flash line: "World's most loved woman to marry world's richest man." But confidential means confidential, whatever the price. I sighed and nodded in perfect unison.

"I suppose you're aware of Harrington's opinions on cloning," Sibbrel went on. "He doesn't keep them hidden."

"When he's in a good mood, cloning is 'an abomination' or 'a perversion of nature.' Usually, he's not that pleasant," I2 said.

"That's right. I'm sorry, Kilborn. Harrington's not a bad man, but he has a bad blind spot. I happen not to share his views on the subject. In fact, some of my best——"

"Never mind, Sibbrel," I3 cut in.

"Of course. Well...." Sibbrel swallowed, looked uncomfortable, then went ahead with his story. "It comes down to this. If Harrington thinks that a snip-and-runner has taken a cutting of Glory, the marriage will be off. If we contract for a legitimate cloning, it's off even faster. And as soon as word gets out, Glory's life and career are ruined."

"I'm afraid I don't follow your logic, Sibbrel," I4 said.

"The whole mystique of Glory Sibbrel is that she's an ordinary woman, a solo who's accomplished more in a young life (continued on page 194) Glory, Glory (continued from page 136) than most deciclones. If there's even the faintest suggestion that she's not unique, it's all over."

I2,3 shook my2,3 head. "If she's a solo, she's a solo," I3 said. "It's easy to prove."

"Harrington's paranoid on the subject. He'd never believe lab results once he had a notion fixed in his head," Sibbrel said. "All he has to do is suspect that someone close to him is connected in some way with cloning—sorry, Kilborn, but that's the way he feels—and he'll go all out to destroy that person. He can do it, too."

"Sweet guy your daughter has," I2 said through clenched teeth.

"On any other subject, yes. Harrington's given billions to charity. The people who work for him love him. But on this subject...." Sibbrel shrugged. "It's a fixation, and he's never been able to shake it."

"Harrington's first wife was one of triplets, as I recall," I4 observed.

"That's right. The others were both hollie stars. They led pretty gaudy lives, and the constant sight of them with their latest lovers ... well, it got to Harrington. Before long, he couldn't believe that his wife was herself and not one of the others. It ruined his marriage. Tragic, in a way."

I3 gave a dry little laugh. "He took it like a real man. Blamed the whole thing on clones. You won't get much pity for H. H. Harrington from me, I'm afraid."

"I hope your daughter will be happy with him, Sibbrel. May they have triplets. Two sets," I2 said, rising.

Sibbrel nearly jumped out of his skin. "Don't walk out on me, Kilborn, please! Nobody else can handle this right. I'll pay whatever you like. All I'm asking is ten days. That's all. In ten days they'll be married, and she'll be protected for the rest of her life. It's for Glory's happiness, not for me. Sit down, please. Have a drink," he said, hustling to a well-stocked bar. "We all need a drink."

"Both," I2 corrected him.

I4 don't drink, but I1,2,3 had Scotch: neat, on the rocks and with soda. In a more relaxed atmosphere, I3 said, "You may be worrying prematurely. Even if the snip-and-runners reached her tonight, it would take three years to produce a working adult. By then, Miss Sibbrel might have brought Harrington around to a more reasonable frame of mind."

"I'm afraid Harrington is the one who brings people around, Kilborn."

"Actually, she'd have a lot more than three years, unless they used forced growth," I4 pointed out. "It's best not to rush the process."

"I've heard that some of the really top bootleg dittomen are using a hot-radiation process that will produce a full-grown adult in less than a year," Sibbrel said.

"It'll be a pretty damned unstable adult," I1 said.

"Do you think they care? If they could turn out ten thousand Glory Sibbrels, they wouldn't care if every one of them fell to pieces in a few years! They'd be billionaires!" Sibbrel cried.

"A point well taken," I4 admitted.

"Can't you see what that would do to a man with Harrington's fixation? Before he's married a year, he sees his wife everywhere he looks. Every night, thousands of men make love to Glory Sibbrel—and every Glory is the original! Harrington would go out of his mind. Glory would lose her husband, her career, everything. I can't let that happen, Kilborn."

"All right, Sibbrel. I'll take the case. Starting now. I'll stay here and keep an eye on things, and meanwhile, I'll ask a few questions around,"I3 said.

"I'd better get some sleep. I'll be working round-the-clock shifts until this is done, and I'll have to be in the office to dig out what I can from the data banks," I1 said.

Sibbrel grabbed my,1,3 hands and shook them fervently. "Thanks, Kilborn. If anyone can keep Glory safe until the wedding, it's you. NowI can relax a little." He smiled thinly and shook his head. "This has really upset me. I've been talking to myself since last night."

"What's wrong with that?" I2 asked. "I do it all the time."

•

For the first few days, the Glory Sibbrel case was strictly routine. I2,3 took 12-hour turns as bodyguard while I1,4 made the rounds of my contacts and went through everything in the data banks. I1,4 was more surprised by what I1,4 couldn't find than by what turned up. And I2,3 found Glory Sibbrel more and more difficult to figure out.

First night on the case, she slept right through. Next morning, I2 flew with her to London, where she was lecturing at the Tate on Turner, Pollock and the neofrag-mentists. She was strictly business all the way: no small talk, no questions, not a word beyond a bare-bones account of the snip-and-run attacks that didn't add a thing to her father's story. All her attention was on the lecture. I2 was a bit of luggage, no more. Coming back, she was stony silence for the entire 90 minutes of the flight. Delayed shock, I2 told myself. She hates to admit to needing help. She likes privacy. She prefers the company of richer men. Whatever it was, I2 wasn't winning her over. I2 was still nothing but luggage.

We landed at a private airport. When we reached the apartment, I3 was waiting to take over from me2. That's when it became clear just how far I2,3 wasn't winning Glory over.

Once inside the apartment, Glory looked back and forth at me2,3 and, with her most dazzling smile, said, "I simply can't understand how you people tell yourselves apart. Which one is really Joe Kilborn? Do you know?"

When someone calls me you people, I know there's unpleasantness on the way. As calmly as I2 could, I2 said, "Save that for your boyfriend, Miss Sibbrel. He likes it. I don't."

"I? Did you say I? What does that word mean to a clone?" she asked, still smiling innocently.

"Same as it means to you. Or to H. H. Harrington," I2 said.

"I doubt that very much. I don't think creatures like you have anything in common with normal human beings."

I3 bit my3 tongue and kept quiet, but I2 had to reply to that. "What would you know about normal human beings, MissSibbrel?" I2 asked coolly.

She gave me2 a blast from those big, beautiful hazel eyes that would have withered a small forest. She held it for a moment, then, in an icy voice, said, "Tell me, clone—what does it feel like when you die and still go on living? Do you know? Do you ever talk about it when you get together with others like yourselves? I'd really be interested to know."

That's a question a solo really shouldn't ask, and most of them have the good sense not to. It's a touchy point among clones. Trying to keep my voice calm, I2, said, "It's not so bad, I'm told. You feel a little lighter, that's all."

"A little lighter," she repeated, as if the words were tainted. "So death is no more than a diet to you people. God, I'll be so glad when H. H. gets back and we can be married!"

"Until then, I'll be around to watch over you," I3 said cheerfully.

"Keep your distance. You're my father's idea, not mine. I don't need creatures like you to protect me. I'm a crack shot, and I hold black belts in three martial arts you probably can't pronounce."

"I have four black belts myself," I2 said.

She slammed the door to her bedroom in my2 face. I2,3 exchanged a quick, puzzled glance. Whatever Glory Sibbrels other talents, she was not a convincing actress. But I2,3 couldn't figure out why she had put on this little scene at all.

•

In the meantime, I1 was coming up with nothing from my1 contacts. If snip-and-runners were after Glory Sibbrel, they weren't a known gang.

Curiously enough, the feeling among the bootleg dittomen—whether or not Sibbrel wanted to believe it—was that Glory was just too big to touch. Her popularity—the very factor that attracted dittomen in the first place—made her dangerous. It could cause public outrage, and that always meant trouble.

There were stiff laws on the books, but enforcement was easygoing. Other crimes bothered the public more, so snip-and-runners seldom got more than a token fine. But cutting for an illicit ditto of Glory Sibbrel was messing with a national treasure. People who tried it might find themselves on the losing end of a crusade. The immediate gain, enormous though it could be, simply wasn't worth the risk.

Actually, that wasn't altogether good news. It could mean that a bunch of one-cut amateurs were behind this, hoping to make a bundle in a single big operation. Neither Glory herself nor her father nor any of the bodyguards could give me1 a description of the snip-and-runners. I1 had no leads at all.

I4 wasn't getting any help from the data banks, either. They were so clean that it hurt my4 eyes to look at the screen. And that was odd.

A little more than a year before, Glory Sibbrel had been flying back from the Russian premiere of her Suite for Ion Guitar, Capacitors and Solar Flute when she disappeared. Weeks later, the world learned that she had gone down in Baffin Bay. She was badly smashed up, and when Sibbrel's own ship finally found her, days after the crash, she was a shallow breath away from being dead.

They brought her back. Sibbrel may not have been in H. H. Harrington's financial league, but he had plenty. He used it all to save Glory's life. She not only survived, she came out looking better than ever. It was close to being a miracle. And, as is often the case with miracles, the facts were hard to trace. I4 couldn't find a thing.

Sibbrel wouldn't talk about the accident or the recovery period. "Too painful," he said, and shut up like a stillbooth. That went double for Glory herself. So I4 looked elsewhere.

Glory Sibbrel's career was a matter of extremely public record. The daily faxes had material on her from the time she had won the Tchaikovsky competition at six to the latest hour's flash. All the faxes—newsies, nasties, snobbies, sobbies, scandals, brainies—were available to the point of eyestrain. But I4 studied them all. Sometimes the right answers are so obvious they're invisible until you've stared at them for a few days.

The story got foggier as I4 moved farther from her public life, though. When I4 started combing medical records, it vanished.

My4 specialty is digging up facts that other people—for all kinds of reasons—don't want dug up. I4 know where to look, and I4 know how. If it's in a data bank, 4'll find it. But after eight days of digging, it was clear that all I4 was going to get for my4 digging this time was sore fingers. Sibbrel had hidden everything to do with the real facts of Glory's recovery too deep.

My4 eyes were burning. I4 shut down, slumped in a chair and let my4 mind drift while the office grew dark. Poor Sibbrel. On the subject of cloning, he was as spooked as Harrington, though he was decent enough to be a social hypocrite. Glory's accident must have been a devoted father's worst nightmare come true. In a coma, sedated for weeks on end, she'd be helpless in the hands of anyone who decided to nip a few cells and go into the Glory Sibbrel business for himself. The thought of that must have tormented poor Sibbrel. His daughter smashed up so badly that even he couldn't recognize her....

And that was his answer. It had to be.

Nobody had ever touched Glory Sibbrel. People worked on Miss X, or Jane Doe, or whatever name Sibbrel came up with. And who bothers doing a snip-and-run on Jane Doe? Who cares about her medical records?

It was the perfect solution, elegantly simple, and it explained the absence of medical information. There had never been anything on Glory Sibbrel in the first place. The big medical miracle wasn't made public until Glory was out of the hands of the emergency medics and was safe with familiar, trusted people on the family payroll. Then the news was turned out by Sibbrel's fax representatives, who were used to giving the public just what they were dying to hear about Glory.

I4 sat there in the office, dark and silent now, thinking of how Sibbrel must have felt in those first moments, faced with the possible loss of the person most precious to him. He didn't have time to ponder. He had to think fast and act fast. If Glory had died in that crash....

And then everything came clear at once.

A few minor points were still slightly fuzzy, but I4 knew just how to check them out. No trouble at all. I4'd get the rest of my4 answers from Sibbrel.

•

It was past two o'clock in the morning when I1,4 arrived at Sibbrel's apartment, but he was as accommodating as ever. If I1,4 had awakened him, he didn't show any sign of resentment.

I4 asked for information about two of his big holdings; necessary background data, I4 said. He fudged. I1 followed with a very precise question about one of his overseas investments. He waffled. So I4 asked him outright about the condition of two very shaky companies in which he was a partner, and he lied. All the time, he was friendly and no more jittery than usual. But when I2,3 led Glory into the room, he exploded.

"What the hell are you up to, Kilborn? What do you mean, waking up my daughter and dragging her in here?" he bellowed.

"Relax, Mr. Sibbrel. I have a few questions for her, that's all," I4 said.

"I don't want Glory questioned, understand? And I won't answer any more questions myself. In fact, if you don't stick to what I'm paying you for, I'll drop you and hire someone else to protect my daughter."

Glory strutted to his side and glanced around at me with disdain. "Why don't you sack this bunch of amateurs here and now, Daddy? Pay them off and hire some real men to guard me," she said.

I1 decided to let them have it. "Sorry, but it's too late. I can't walk out on a murder."

"Murder?" Sibbrel said. His voice cracked a little, but he swallowed loudly and demanded, "Are you crazy, Kilborn? Who do you think's been murdered?"

"Glory Sibbrel," I1 said.

Sibbrel collapsed in his chair and slumped forward over the desktop with his face in his hands. When he looked up, he was a lot older. He shook his head and murmured, "No, not murder, Kilborn. Never murder. It wasn't supposed to....

I didn't mean for her to die, I swear it. I only wanted her out of the way for a while...."

"Until Glor y2 could marry Harrington," I4 said.

"Why not?" Glory2 said defiantly. "He kept crawling after her, and she kept turning him down because he wasn't saintly enough for her. Daddy needed money, and she wouldn't give him a cent—her and her charities and her benefits and her good-will tours. Now I'm everything she was, and I know what to do with it."

"How long would Harrington have lasted?" I2 asked. "Six months? A year?"

"Not more than a year," I4 said. "Harrington wanted to have a big family the old-fashioned way. It was important to his cause. And clones are sterile. When Glory2 didn't get pregnant quick, he'd call in a platoon of specialists to find out why. Once they found out why, it would all be over."

Glory2 gave a cold, contemptuous laugh. "Six months is generous. I would have had everything Harrington owned signed over to me in a week, and after that, he'd be on borrowed time."

Sibbrel reached out his hands and looked at me with tear-filled eyes. "Kilborn, please. I was desperate. I needed money or I was ruined. I never meant for her to die. She was my daughter, for God's sake!"

"But you tampered with her plane," I1 said.

"I rigged the power cells, that's all. I thought I had it set exactly—she'd have to make a landing in Greenland, and I had men waiting. She'd think it was a kidnaping. By the time they let her escape, we'd have the Harrington money. But she was a better pilot than anyone knew. She managed to keep the plane up when no one else could have. She almost made it across Baffin Bay. I never thought she'd get that far."

"Even if it had worked out, don't you think she might have suspected?" I1 asked.

"Not Glory. She would have believed whatever I told her. With all her accomplishments, all her genius, she was ... she was an innocent."

No one spoke for a moment. Then Glory2 stepped before the desk. She folded her arms, looked at me one by one and in that deep, musical voice said, "It could still work." I didn't reply, and she elaborated. "All you have to do is keep your mouths shut. Daddy and I will readjust your fee. What would you say to ten million—each?"

I shook my head in perfect unison. It wasn't easy, even though I knew she had no intention of paying me or anyone.

She smiled that incredible smile and brushed back her luminous golden hair. Even under these circumstances, I felt my heart beat faster and my knees go weak at the sight of such beauty. "It doesn't hurt to try," she said and returned slowly to the other side of the desk. She stepped back and stood against the wall, silent, arms folded.

"She's right, Kilborn," Sibbrel said. "It could still work if you keep quiet." "No deal," I2,3 said, and I1,4 nodded in agreement.

"All right, then, no deal. So what will you do?" The broken, teary-eyed Sibbrel had abruptly vanished. I was talking to a much cooler customer now. Maybe this was the real one. "Can you find the plane? Can you find the body? Can you prove that this woman isn't Glory Sibbrel? Come on, Kilborn–what can you do with your suspicions except make a fool of yourself?"

"Not suspicions, Sibbrel. I know you did it," I4 said.

"So it's your word against mine. And clones can't corroborate one another's testimony, so you're a single, unsupported witness. It's a joke, Kilborn." "The evidence is all there, Sibbrel," I1 said.

"It won't be for long. You're not as smart as you think you are, Kilborn. You've told mejust where to clean out the data banks, and I'll have it done before you get back to your apartment. Thanks for your help."

I2,3 started for him, but Glor y2 raised a wide-angle needier and I2,3 froze in my2,3 tracks. I1,4 didn't move. She could cut me to pieces with a single burst at this range.

"So it's a standoff," I2 said.

"Standoff?" Sibbrel laughed loudly and unpleasantly. "It's no standoff. It's victory for me and defeat for you. You did exactly what I wanted you to do, Kilborn. You went out and dug up all the evidence that could hurt me, and you handed it to me on a silver platter. I think I ought to pay you a bonus."

"Why me, Sibbrel?" I3 asked.

"The Lucky Clover agency has a reputation for honesty. I knew you'd do a thorough job," he said and laughed again.

"You're a pretty thorough man yourself," I2 said, glancing at Glory2. "How many more of her have you got stashed away in case this one doesn't work out?"

"None!" she cried, enraged. "I'm Glory Sibbrel, and there's no other anywhere!"

"Are you sure? A smart man like your daddy always has a backup," I2 said. I4 added, "As I see it, Miss Sibbrel, you're not more than two years old. Forced growth under hot radiation, wasn't it?"

"What about it?" she snapped.

"It's a very unstable process, I'm sorry to say. Very soon, you——"

"Shut up, Kilborn," Sibbrel snapped.

"No, Daddy, let him talk. Go ahead, you," said Glor y2

"You'll suffer internal breakdown," I4 went on. "It usually starts with the digestive system. At first, you'll think it's indigestion or ulcers."

"You may have hallucinations," I1 added. "Eventually, you'll have psychotic episodes."

"It spreads to the vital organs very quickly. And once the kidneys or the liver or the heart starts to degenerate...." I4 shrugged andshook m y4 head. "Very dramatic. But that won't happen to me. Daddy has a process. He can fix me when I start to slip back. Nobody else can, but he has a new process. Tell them, Daddy. Tell them!"

I3 kept my3 eyes on Glory2, but I1,2,4 turned to look hard at Sibbrel. He was paler now and didn't seem quite so confident.

"Nobody has a process, Glory," I4 said. "There isn't anything anyone can do. You were made too quickly, and you won't last."

"Daddy ... ?" she said in a little-girl voice.

"They're trying to scare you, Glory. I'll have it. When you need me, I'll be there, Glory. I won't let anything——"

She let out a shriek of wild, pure animal hatred and opened up on Sibbrel. He slammed back as if he had been hit by a fast-moving roller, and I moved all at once. I2 took a short burst as Glory2 turned, but I1,3,4 was on her2 before I2 hit the floor.

She put up no struggle at all. The ambulance and the police were very prompt to answer a call from Eastblock. Glory2 didn't say a word all the time we waited. She just stared at that picture of her homecoming.

•

Clones learn a lot about sympathy pains. I1,3,4 felt just asbad looking down on m e2 in that hospital bed as I2 felt looking up at m y1,3,4 mournful face and aching where the surgeons had pulled 31 pellets out of m e2. But at least I was still—figuratively, anyway—all in one piece.

"How are we feeling?" I3 asked.

I2 opened m y2 eyes and nodded weakly. It was hard to talk, but I2 wanted to know how things had come out. "I'm OK.What happened to the Sibbrels?"

"Daddy's dead," I1 said. "Glor y2 won't make it to trial. Degeneration has already set in. She hasn't got two months left."

"You spotted her as a forced-growth job," I2 said to me4. "That was pretty good judgment. No one else even suspected it."

"She just wasn't behaving the way Glory Sibbrel ought to behave. If shewas a forced-growth clone approaching the degeneration point, that could explain the aberrant behavior. I made alucky guess."

"And Sibbrel waited too long to bring in Glor y3," I3 pointed out.

"Yes, that helped. But, actually, it was a lucky guess. In fact, almost everything I threw at Sibbrel was guesswork. It fit together, but there wasn't a shred of hard evidence," I4 admitted.

I2 was getting tired and I1,3,4 had a lot to do at the office, so I1,3,4 said goodbye and left me2 to rest while I1,3,4 caught up on the work. It was just beginning to rain when I1,3 left the hospital, and I1,3 decided to catch a roller and split the fare. I4 preferred to walk. I4 wanted to do some thinking, and I4 always think better in the rain.

But all the way back to the office, I4 kept thinking of only one thing: What a relief it was not to have to change the name of the Lucky Clover agency to the Shamrock agency. Not that I have anything against the Irish. Four heads are better than three, that's all.

" 'I've been trying to keep it quiet, but last night was the fourth attempt. I cant handle it by myself any longer.' "