Sordman crossed the hall to get a good start. "I'm about to, Mylady." His shoulder filled the doorway behind him. This looks like fun, he thought. He liked to feel his body working. The door opened. A dark-haired, slender girl stood in the doorway. Her skin was brown and her lips were pink, unpainted flesh. She wore a red kimono. "All right. Come in." "Gladly," Sordman said. It was a three-room apartment, with the kitchen tucked into one wall of the parlor. A painting stood on an easel by the window. The window was a shoulder-high slit and from it, here on the hundred and forty-first floor, he could see across the park to the beach and the rolling Atlantic. God grant me self-control, he thought. If this is the killer, grant me self-control. He made his savage thoughts lie down and purred at the world. "I'm sorry we have to force our way in," he said. "And I'm sorry you don't approve of Talent. But please remember two men have died and a little girl may die, too. There are lots of panicky people in the Mark Twain. We've got to find the killer soon and you can help us." "Why bother me?" the girl said. "This is awkward," Lee said. She stood erect but looked past the girl. She felt embarrassed. "Someone told us you and Bedler were seeing each other." "Oh, quit being prudish," George said. "These things happen all the time." He turned to the girl. "We were told you and Joe Bedler were making plans to get married when your present contract ends." "That's a lie!" Sordman laughed in his belly. No matter what the rules were, few women publicly admitted they had broken them. By the standards of the period from 1800 to 1990, the whole marriage system of the Twenty-First Century was immoral; but there were still prudes. And women still preserved the conventions. "Who told you that?" Raven English said. She frowned. "Was it that Jackie Baker?" "Why her?" George asked. "Because she's a logical person for you to talk to and because it's the kind of thing she'd say." "Yes," Sordman said. "She ought to see a psycher! And that's why you came?" "We're not accusing you," Sordman said. "But we've got to follow every lead." * * * * * The girl swore. "Why would I kill Joe? Why are you all suspicious? That's why I hate Talents! All you've done is make everyone suspicious. Everybody's afraid of everybody else." "Are you an artist?" Sordman asked. "What?" "Are you an artist?" "What's that got to do with it? No, I'm not. My husband paints." He felt her stall and evade. She would grab at any subject to distract them. He decided he would let his mind probe at random. "Is he a professional painter?" Lee asked. "No, he's an engineer. They wouldn't let him go to art school. He's trying to teach himself." She shrugged and ogled the ceiling. Her emotions said, Men are like that. "What does your husband think of Talent?" Sordman asked. "Does he share your prejudice?" "Didn't you meet Len?"