IT WAS A dark and quiet killing. A grunt, a gasp, a faint groan muffled by the pouring rain as the dying man breathed his last, a thud as the body dropped to the ground. No scream, no flash and roar of a blaster, nothing but a new corpse in the night and the splattering of raindrops.

But the man was dead for all of that.

The quiet would help. With no sound to attract attention, it could easily be hours before anyone found the Ranger’s body. And by then, of course, it would be too late.

No one would know until it was all over.

The killer smiled, the expression on his pale face revealing a satiated blood lust, rather than happiness. Revenge was a pleasure of a rare and delicate nature, and one that could be savored long after the event that inspired it. But enough of his own private business. He had another job, a professional matter, to deal with.

Ottley Bissal stepped over the body, and moved toward the light and glitter of the party at the Governor’s Winter Residence.

The South Hall of the Winter Residence was getting more crowded, and louder. To an untutored eye, it might well appear to be a calm and pleasant gathering, the movers and shakers of this world brought together for a night of celebration, a recognition of solidarity and cooperation.

Sheriff Alvar Kresh, watching the proceedings from a quiet corner as far from the bandstand as possible, did not see it that way. Not one little bit. “Well, Donald,” he said, turning toward his companion. “What do you think?”

“Most unsatisfactory, sir,” Donald replied. Donald 111 was Kresh’s personal assistant, and one of the more advanced robots on the planet—certainly the most advanced police robot. He was painted the sky-blue of the Sheriffs Department, and built in a short, rounded-off approximation of the human form.