Conscience of the Beagle
Conscience of the Beagle
“I look back, but can’t see the other cab. Better than I expected, the undercover God’s Warriors. More dangerous. And Vanderslice is more deadly than I’d ever believed. The door opens. I limp into the darkened living room. Beagle’s standing by a lamp in the den. “You look like shit. Sit down, Dyle. I’ll get your pills.” I collapse into an overstuffed chair. Beagle brings me iced water and a white tablet. He sits and watches me take it. “I got the pattern,” he says. “And I was wrong. It’s all centered around Paulie Hendrix.” I bobble the glass. My hand’s shaking too much to hold it. I set it on an end table. “Solving this one was a real hard-on, Dyle. There were patterns within patterns like a Chinese puzzle box.” A whir. Something lumbers at me—right at me—from the shadows. Beagle turns in surprise. The household bot. Just the bot. It rolls over, sets a doily under my glass, then moves to a parking place against the wall. Beagle’s shoulders relax. “So.
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