seen, but the Identi-Graph was having none of it. Apparently it had drawn one

composite sketch too many and overloaded its thaumaturgically etched

circuits,

because it seemed intent on drawing whatever it wanted to draw, rather than

what

the woman told it.

"No, no, no, mat's not what 'e looked like a-tall!" the woman shrilled

nasally.

" 'E 'ad a mustache!"

"But that's so passe!" the Identi-Graph protested. "A mustache with that sort

of

a hairstyle simply wouldn't do at all, luv. Look here, see? It looks ever so

much better when he's clean-shaven. And look, what say we do a little

something

with the jawline, hmm? I think it would look absolutely smashing if he had

one

of those lantern jaws with a cleft chin, don't you? I say, yes, that's

positively Aryan—"

"No, no, no, no, no!" shouted the woman, shaking her head vigorously. "That

ain't 'im a-tall! That's bloody Lord Nelson!"

"It isn't."

"It is!" she insisted.

"Isn't."

"Is!"

"Isn't."

"Is!"

"Excuse me," Blood said, picking up the Identi-Graph and tossing it out a

nearby

open window. It screamed in terror as it fell to shatter on the street below.

"We'll get you another one, shall we?" he said, smiling warmly at the woman

and

desperately hoping that Constable Shavers had some aspirin.

Everywhere he looked, someone was being interviewed either in person or over

the

phone; reports were being typed up; files were being searched; suspects were

being questioned; reporters were being briefed; and computers were angrily

upbraiding people for not requesting data property. The din was incredible.

He

wondered what the chances were of making it to his office and getting the

door

closed before somebody spotted him.

Too late. An alert reporter had noticed him coming in and called out his

name.

Blood winced. Screw this, he thought, and bolted for the door. The woman in

the

cloth coat grabbed at his sleeve.

"Am I goin' to get another o' them Identi-things?" she whined.