The Counterfeit Heinlein. Laurence M. Janifer
yet.”
B’russ’r rustled his wings, spreading them open just a bit and then shutting them, two or three times. Applause. “Flawless,” he murmured. I bowed just a trifle.
“There’s a job lot of computer-simulation experts, now,” Gross said. “It’s not as if this Leake person was going to be the only one in the galaxy. Or even the only one in the whole of City Two.”
“The forgery was stolen three nights ago,” B’russ’r said quietly. “Leake was shot dead tonight. This would call for rather a large coincidence.”
Gross snorted again. “Coincidences do happen, B’russ’r,” he said, and B’russ’r nodded, and said just before I could:
“So they do. Connected events also happen. One must learn to distinguish.”
At which point a tall thin woman in a tweed suit bustled up to Gross and said: “We’re done here except for final temp comparisons and assay. Okay for the M. E. to take him?”
Gross opened his mouth, sighed and shut it again. He turned to B’russ’r. “Would that be all right with you, now?” he said.
B’russ’r bowed politely. “Thank you for asking,” he said, just as if Gross had had any choice; once a Beri was there as consult, even self-called as B’russ’r clearly had been, he had official standing. Berigot noticed things—and had no prejudices. “Knave is of official standing as well. If all right for him, it is all right for me.”
Gross turned a little redder. “Wonderful, then,” he said. “Just wonderful. Knave, how is it for you? I mean to say, now: may we go ahead and do our work?”
“Go right ahead,” I said. “You have my cheerful permission.”
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