In the enormous whale belly of steel and stone carved out to form the long-enduring Gold Coast theater, Blaine found a noisy rehearsal taking place. As he entered, he recognized the opening bars to Don't Rain on My Parade.

What a pleasure; he loved Funny Girl. He seated himself in a box off to the side (no one appeared to notice him) and made himself comfortable.

“Don't tell me not to fly, I simply got to; if someone takes a spill, it's me and not you – ” Blaine was impressed. The woman singing this song, a petite brunette, had an incredible voice. Pulling out the printout on Rachel Berry he studied the picture, then leaned back, satisfied. I've now seen my third Nexus-6 android, he realized. This is Rachel Berry.

On the stage, she continued to sing, and he found himself increasingly surprised at the quality of her voice. It rated with that of the best, even that of notables in his collection of historic mp3s. The Sylvester-Hummel Association built her well, he had to admit. It was a damned shame he was going to have to retire her. The world could use more of this kind of beauty. Blaine closed his eyes and allowed himself to float along on the rich timbre of her voice. Perhaps, he thought, the better she functions, the more I am needed. If the androids had remained substandard, like the ancient q-40s made by the Dalton Associates, there would be no problem and no need of my skill.

At the end of the act the rehearsal ended temporarily. It would resume, the director said, in an hour and a half. Getting to his feet, Blaine made his way backstage to the dressing rooms; he followed the tail end of the cast, taking his time and thinking, It's better this way, getting it immediately over with. I'll spend as short a time talking to her and testing her as possible. As soon as I'm sure – but technically he could not be sure until after the test. Maybe Shannon guessed wrong on her, he conjectured. I hope so. But he doubted it. Already, instinctively, his professional sense had responded. And he had yet to err…throughout years with the department.

Stopping a super he asked for Ms. Berry's dressing room. The super, carrying a heavy stage light balanced on one shoulder, pointed. Blaine arrived at the indicated door, saw an ink-written note tacked to it reading Miss Berry PRIVATE. There was a gold star – a sticker – next to the words. Blaine knocked.

“Come in.”

He entered. The girl sat at her dressing table, a much-handled clothbound script open on her knees, marking here and there with a ball-point pen. She still wore her costume and makeup. “Yes?” she said, looking up. The stage makeup enhanced her eyes; enormous and brown they fixed on him and did not waver. “I am busy, as you can see. The show opens in less than a week and I still have a lot to do to get everything perfect.” Her English contained no remnant of an accent.

Blaine said, “You compare favorably to Streisand.”

“Thank you so much,” she said, beaming. After a moment of staring into his eyes, she glanced down and saw his briefcase. Her smile faltered. “Who are you?”

“I'm from the San Francisco Police Department,” he said.

“Oh?” The huge and intense eyes remained fixed on his own. “What are you here about?” Her tone, oddly, seemed gracious.

Seating himself in a nearby chair he unzipped his briefcase. “I have been sent here to administer a standard personality profile test to you. It won't take more than a few minutes.”

“Is it necessary?” She gestured toward the big cloth-bound script. “My debut is coming so soon and I have so much to do.” She had begun to look apprehensive.

“It's necessary.” He got out the Voigt-Kamff instruments, began setting them up.

“An IQ test?”

“No. Empathy.”

“I'll have to put on my glasses.” She reached to open a drawer of her dressing table.

“If you can mark the script without your glasses you can take this test without them. I'll show you some pictures and ask you some questions. Meanwhile – ” He got up and walked to her, and bending, pressed the adhesive pad of sensitive grids against her deeply tinted cheek. “And this light,” he said, adjusting the angle of the pencil beam, “and that's it.”

“Do you think I'm an android? Is that it?” She said with excitement. “This is fantastic. It can help me prepare for a future role. There aren't any current Broadway productions about androids, but I've heard some backroom talks that April Rhodes may be planning something. Her last play won a Tony, you know.”

“I hope it's helpful to you,” Blaine said dryly.

“Oh,” she said with sudden realization. “You actually think I'm an android, don't you?” Her elongated lashes shuddered involuntarily. He saw her trying to appear calm. “I'm not one. I've never even been to Mars. I've never even seen an android, except on TV.” Thinking for a moment, she asked, “Do you have information that there's an android in the cast? I'd be glad to help you. If I were an android would I be glad to help you?”

“An android,” he said, “doesn't care what happens to another android. That's one of the indications we look for.”

“Then,” Ms. Berry said, “you must be an android.”

That stopped him. He stared at her.

“Because,” she continued, “your job is to kill them, isn't it? You're what they call – ”

“A bounty hunter,” Blaine said. “But I'm not an android.”

“This test you want to give me.” Her voice grew stronger, more self-assured. “Have you taken it?”

“Yes,” he nodded. “When I first started with the department.”

“Maybe that's a false memory. Don't androids sometimes go around with false memories?”

Blaine said, “My superiors know about the test. It's mandatory.”

“Maybe there was once a human who looked like you, and somewhere along the line you killed him and took his place. And your superiors don't know.” She smiled. As if inviting him to agree.

“Let's get on with the test,” he said, getting out the sheets of questions.

“I'll take the test,” Rachel Berry said, “if you'll take it first.”

Again he stared at her, stopped in his tracks.

“Wouldn't that be more fair?” she asked. “Then I could be sure of you. And besides, it would help me even more with my career goals. I would be prepared to play either an android or a bounty hunter when that new play comes out.” She smiled again. Hopefully.

“You wouldn't be able to administer the Voigt-Kampff test. It takes considerable experience. Now please listen carefully. These questions will deal with social situations you might find yourself in; what I want from you is a statement of response, what you'd do. And I want the response as quickly as you can give it. One of the factors I'll record is the time lag, if any.” He selected his initial question. “You're sitting watching TV and suddenly you discover a wasp crawling on your wrist.” He checked with his watch, counting the seconds. And checked, too, the twin dials.

“What's a wasp?” Rachel asked.

“A stinging bug that flies.”

“Oh, how strange.” Her immense eyes widened with childlike acceptance, as if he had revealed the cardinal mystery of creation. “Do they still exist? I've never seen one.”

“They died out because of the dust. Don't you really know what a wasp is? You must have been alive when there were wasps; that's only been – ”

“Tell me the Hebrew word.”

He tried to think of the Hebrew word but couldn't. He pulled up the translator app on his phone and quickly typed in the word and requested language. When it didn't come back with the answer immediately, he sighed in frustration. “Your English is perfect,” he said angrily.

“My accent,” she corrected, “is perfect. It has to be, for the stage. But my vocabulary isn't very large.” She glanced at him shyly.

His phone pinged and he glanced down at it. “I can't read Hebrew, so I don't know how to say that.” He showed her the screen.

“Ah, yes,” she said, pronouncing the word and then saying a few more sentences in rapid Hebrew. She laughed. “What was your question?”

“Let's try another.” Impossible now to get a meaningful response. “you are watching an old movie on TV, a movie from before the war. It shows a banquet in progress; the entrée” – he skipped over the first part of the question – “consists of boiled dog, stuffed with rice.”

“Nobody would kill and eat a dog,” Rachel said. “They're worth a fortune. But I guess it would be an imitation dog. Ersatz, right? But those are made of wires and motors. They can't be eaten.”

“Before the war,” he grated.

“I wasn't alive before the war.”

“But you've seen old movies on TV.”     

“Was the movie made in the Philippines?”

“Why?”

“Because,” Rachel said haughtily, “they use to eat boiled dog stuffed with rice in the Philippines. I remember reading that.”

“But your response,” he said. “I want your social, emotional, moral reaction.”

“To the movie?” She pondered. “I'd turn it off and watch a musical instead.”

“Why would you turn it off?”

“Well,” she said hotly, “I can't imagine that it would have won any Oscars, so it wouldn't do anything for my career to watch it. And besides, who the hell wants to watch an old movie set in the Philippines?” She glared at him indignantly. The needles swung in all directions.

After a pause he said carefully, “You rent a mountain cabin.”

“Yes,” she nodded. I might actually do that. The mountain air is supposed to be really good for rejuvenating the voice.”

“In an area still verdant.”

“Pardon?” She cupped her ear. “I don't ever hear that term.”

“Still trees and bushes growing. The cabin is rustic knotty pine with a huge fireplace. On the walls someone has hung old maps, Currier and Ives prints, and above the fireplace a deer's head has been mounted, a full stag with developed horns. The people with you admire the décor of the cabin and – ”

“I don't understand ‘Currier' or ‘Ives' or ‘décor,' Rachel said. She seemed to be struggling, however, to make out the terms. “Wait.” She held up her hand earnestly. “With rice, like in the dog. Currier is what makes the rice currier rice. Or is it curry?”

He could not fathom, for the life of him, if Rachel Berry's semantic fog was calculated or innocent. Either way, it was rendering his test meaningless. He decided to try another question. What else could he do? “You're dating a man,” he said, “and he asks you to visit his apartment. While you're there – ”

“Oh, no,” Rachel broke in. “I wouldn't be there. That's easy to answer.”

“That's not the question!”

“Did you get the wrong question? But I understood that. Why is a question I understand the wrong one? Aren't I supposed to understand?” Nervously fluttering she rubbed her cheek – and detached the adhesive disk. It dropped to the floor, skidded, and rolled under her dressing table. She muttered, bending to retrieve it. There was a ripping sound, that of cloth tearing. “Oh God, I can't handle another fitting,” she moaned.

“I'll get it,” he said, and lifted her aside. He knelt down, groping under the dressing table until his fingers located the disk.

When he stood up he found himself looking into a laser tube.

“Your questions,” Rachel said in a crisp, formal voice, “began to be about sex. I thought they would finally. You're not from the police department.” She trained the laser on him with one hand and pointed wildly at him with the other. “You're a sexual deviant!”

“You can look at my identification.” He reached toward his coat pocket. His hand, he saw, had again begun to shake, as it had with Adams.

“If you reach in there,” Rachel said, “I'll kill you.”

“You will anyhow.” He wondered how it would have worked out if he had waited until Kurt Hummel could join him. Well, no use dwelling on that.

“Let me see some more of your questions.” She held out her hand and, reluctantly, he passed her the sheets.

“'In a magazine you come across a full-page color picture of a nude girl.' Well, that's one. ‘You became pregnant by a man who has promised to marry you. The man goes off with another woman, your best friend; you get an abortion.' The pattern of your questioning is obvious. I'm going to call the police.” Still pointing the laser tube in his direction she crossed the room, fished a cell phone out of her purse, and dialed 911. “I need the police. I've been harassed by a sexual deviant…No, he's still here, I have him subdued…In my dressing room, at the Gold Coast Theater…yes, I'll stay on the line.”

“What you're doing,” Blaine said, with relief, “is the best idea possible.” Yet it seemed strange to him that Rachel had decided to do this. Why didn't she simply kill him? Once the police arrived her chance would disappear and it would all go his way.

She must think she's human, he decided. Obviously she doesn't know.

A few minutes later, during which Rachel carefully kept the laser tube on him while running scales – “I can't waste time preparing for the show, just because you chose to harass me” – a tall, lanky, muscular harness bull arrived in his archaic blue uniform with gun and star. “All right, ma'am,” he said to Rachel. “Put that thing away.” She set down the laser tube and he picked it up to examine it, to see if it carried a charge. “Now, what's going on here?” he asked her. Before she could answer he turned to Blaine. “Who are you?” he demanded.

Rachel said, “He came into my dressing room. I've never seen him before in my life. He pretended to be taking a poll or something and he wanted to ask me questions. I thought it was all right and I said okay, and then he began asking obscene questions.” Holding the back of her hand to her forehead, she continued dramatically, “I suppose that's the price of stardom.”

“Let's see your identification,” the harness bull said to Blaine, his hand extended.

As he got out his ID Blaine said, “I'm a bounty hunter with the department.”

“I know all the bounty hunters,” the police officer said as he examined Blaine's wallet. “With the S.F.P.D.?”

“My supervisor is Jake Puckerman,” Blaine said. “I've taken over Shannon Beiste's list, now that Shannon's in the hospital.”

“As I say, I know all the bounty hunters,” the harness bull said, “and I've never heard of you.” He handed Blaine's ID back to him.

“Call Chief Puckerman,” Blaine said.

“There isn't any Chief Puckerman,” the harness bull said.

It came to Blaine what was going on. “You're an android,” he said to the harness bull. “Like Miss Berry here.” Grabbing his phone he said, “I'm going to call the department.” He wondered how far he would get before the two androids stopped him.

“The number,” the harness bull said, “is – ”

“I know the number.” Blaine hit the speed dial and presently had the police receptionist. “Let me talk to Chief Puckerman,” he said.

“Who is calling, please?”

“This is Blaine Anderson.” He stood waiting; meanwhile, off to one side, the harness bull was getting a statement from Rachel Berry. Rachel made a lot of dramatic hand gestures as she told her story. Neither paid any attention to Blaine.

A pause and then Jake Puckerman's face appeared on the screen. “What's doing?” he asked Blaine.

“Some trouble,” Blaine said. “One of those on Shannon's list managed to call in and get a so-called patrolman out here. I can't seem to prove to him who I am. He says he knows all the bounty hunters in the department and he's never heard of me.” He added, “He hasn't heard of you, either.”

Puckerman said, “Let me talk to him.”

“Chief Puckerman wants to talk to you.” Blaine held out the phone. The harness bull ceased questioning Rachel Berry and came over to take it.

“Officer Ryder Lynn,” the harness bull said briskly. A pause. “Hello?” He listened, said hello several times more, then handed the phone back to Blaine. “There's nobody on the line. And nobody on the screen.”

Blaine saw the screen was dark, but he said “Puckerman?” anyway. He redialed the number. The phone rang, but no one answered it. It rang on and on.

“Let me try,” officer Lynn said, pulling out his own phone. “You must have misdialed.” He punched in the numbers. “The number is 842 – ”

“I know the number,” Blaine said. “It's programmed on my phone.”

“Officer Ryder Lynn calling in,” he said. “Is there a Chief Puckerman connected with the department?” A short pause. “Well, what about a bounty hunter named Blaine Anderson?” Again a pause. “You're sure? Could he have recently – oh I see; okay, thanks. No, I have it under control.” Officer Lynn ended the call and turned toward Blaine.

“I had him on the line,” Blaine said. “I talked to him; he said he'd talk to you. It must be phone trouble. A dropped call or a bad connection. Didn't you see – Puckerman's face showed up on the screen and then it didn't.” He felt bewildered.

Officer Lynn said, “I have Ms. Berry's statement, Anderson. So let's go down to the Hall of Justice so I can book you.”

“Okay,” Blaine said. To Rachel he said, “I'll be back soon. I'm still not finished testing you.”

“He's a deviant,” Rachel said to Ryder Lynn. “He gives me the creeps.” She sniffed, tears forming in her eyes. “I don't feel very safe.”

Officer Lynn turned toward Blaine with a look of disgust. As soon as his back was turned to Rachel, Blaine saw her lips turn upward in a triumphant smile. Sniffing again, she added “I just hope that I can use this feeling of fear when I'm on the stage, so this won't be an entirely devastating experience.”

“What play are you getting ready to perform?” Officer Lynn asked, turning back to Rachel, who was busily dabbing her eyes with a tissue.

“Funny Girl,” Blaine said.

“I didn't ask you; I asked her.” The harness bull gave him a glance of dislike.

“I'm anxious to get to the Hall of Justice,” Blaine said. “This matter should be straightened out.” He started toward the door of the dressing room, gripping his briefcase.

“I'll search you first.” Officer Lynn deftly frisked him, and came up with Blaine's service pistol and laser tube. He appropriated both, after a moment of sniffing the muzzle of the pistol. “This has been fired recently,” he said.

“I retired an andy just now,” Blaine said. “The remains are still in my car, up on the roof.”

“Okay,” Officer Lynn said carefully. “We'll go up and have a look.”

As the two of them started from the dressing room, Ms. Berry followed as far as the door. “He won't come back again, will he, officer? I'm really afraid of him. He's so strange.” She looked up at him with wide eyes, blinking innocently.

“If he's got the body of someone he killed upstairs in his car,” Lynn said, “he won't be coming back.” He nudged Blaine forward and, together, the two of them ascended by elevator to the roof of the theater.

Opening the door of Blaine's car, Officer Lynn silently inspected the body of Azimio Adams.

“An android,” Blaine said. “I was sent after him. He almost got me by pretending to be – ”

“They'll take your statement at the Hall of Justice,” Officer Lynn interrupted. He nudged Blaine over to his plainly marked police hovercar. There, by police radio, he put in a call for someone to come pick up Adams. “Okay, Anderson,” he said. “Let's get started.”

With the two of them aboard, the patrol car lifted from the roof and headed south.

Something, Blaine noticed, was not as it should be. Officer Lynn had steered the car in the wrong direction.

“The Hall of Justice,” Blaine said, “is north, on Lombard.”

“That's the old Hall of Justice,” Officer Lynn said. “The new one is on Mission. That old building, it's disintegrating. It's a ruin. Nobody's used that for years. Has it been that long since you last got booked?”

“Take me there,” Blaine said. “To Lombard Street.” He understood it all, now; saw what the androids, working together, had achieved. He would not live beyond this ride; for him it was the end, as it had almost been for Shannon – and probably eventually would be.

“That girl's quite a looker,” Officer Lynn said. “Very trim figure, pretty eyes, nice legs.”

Blaine said, “Admit to me that you're an android.”

“Why? I'm not an android. What do you do, roam around killing people and telling yourself they're androids? I can see why Ms. Berry was scared. It's a good thing for her that she called us.”

“Then take me to the Hall of Justice, on Lombard.”

“Like I said – ”

“It'll take about three minutes,” Blaine said. “I want to see it. Every morning I check in for work, there; I want to see that it's been abandoned for years, as you say.”

“Maybe you're an android,” Officer Lynn said. “With a false memory, like they give them. Had you thought of that?” He frowned, meeting Blaine's eyes in the rear view mirror as he continued to drive south.

Conscious of his defeat, Blaine settled back. And, helplessly, waited to see what came next. Whatever the androids had planned, they now had physical possession of him.

But I did get one of them, he told himself. I got Adams. And Shannon got two.

Hovering over Mission, Officer Lynn's police car prepared to descend for its landing.