The Mission Street Hall of Justice building, onto the roof of which the hovercar descended, jutted up in a series of baroque, ornamental spires, complicated and modern. Blaine Anderson found the structure attractive – except for one aspect. He had never seen it before.

The police hovercar landed and a few minutes later, Blaine found himself being booked.

“304,” Officer Lynn said to the sergeant at the desk. “And 612.4 and let's see. Falsely representing himself to be a police officer.”

“406.7,” the desk sergeant said, filling out the forms. He wrote leisurely, in a slightly bored manner. Routine business, his posture and expression declared. Nothing of importance.

“Over here,” Officer Lynn said to Blaine, leading him to a small white table at which a technician operated familiar equipment. “For your cephalic pattern,” Lynn said. “For identification purposes.”

“I know,” Blaine said brusquely. In the old days, when he had been a harness bull himself, he had brought many suspects to a table like this. Like this, but not this particular table.

His cephalic pattern taken, he found himself being led off to an equally familiar room. Reflexively he began assembling his valuables for transfer. It makes no sense, he said to himself. Who are these people? If this place has always existed, why didn't we know about it? And why don't they know about us? Two parallel police agencies, ours and this one. But never coming in contact – as far as I know – until now. Or maybe they have, he thought. Maybe this isn't the first time. Hard to believe, he thought, that this wouldn't have happened long ago. If this really is a police apparatus, here. It it's what it asserts itself to be.

A woman, not in uniform, detached herself from the spot at which she had been standing and approached Blaine at a measured, unruffled pace. Her moves were graceful, like those of a dancer. She gazed at Blaine curiously. “What's this one?” she asked Officer Lynn.

“Blaine Anderson. Brought him in for suspected homicide,” Lynn answered. “We have a body – we found it in his car – but he claims it's an android. We're checking it out, giving it a bone marrow analysis at the lab. And posing as a police officer, a bounty hunter. To gain access to a woman's dressing room in order to ask her suggestive questions. She doubted he was what he said he was and called us in. Stepping back, Ryder Lynn said, “Do you want to finish up with him, ma'am?”

“All right.” The senior police official, not in uniform, blonde and trim, eyed Blaine, then reached for his briefcase. “What do you have in here, Mr. Anderson?”

Blaine said, “Material pertaining to the Voigt-Kampff personality test. I was testing a suspect when Officer Lynn arrested me.” He watched as the police official rummaged through the contents of the briefcase, examining each item as she held it between long, delicate fingers. “The questions I asked Ms. Berry are standard Voigt-Kampff questions, printed on the – ”

“Do you know Lauren Zizes and Sebastian Smythe?” the police official asked. 

“No,” Blaine said. Neither name meant anything to him.

“They're the bounty hunters attached to our department. Maybe you'll run into them while you're here. Are you an android, Mr. Anderson? The reason I ask is that several times in the past we've had escaped andys turn up posing as out-of-state bounty hunters here in pursuit of a suspect.”

Blaine said, “I'm not an android. You can administer the Voigt-Kampff test to me. I've taken it before and I don't mind taking it again. But I know what the results will be. Can I call my wife?”

“You're allowed one call. Would you rather phone her than a lawyer?”

“I'll phone my wife,” Blaine said. “She can get a lawyer for me.”

The police official pointed toward a screen and a receiver. “You can make a video call over there.” She watched as Blaine crossed the room to the phone. Then she returned to her careful examination of his briefcase.

Blaine dialed his home phone number and stood for what seemed like an eternity, waiting.

A woman's face appeared on the screen. “Hello,” she said.

It was not Tina. He had never seen the woman before in his life.

He hung up, walked slowly back to the police official.

“No luck?” she asked. “Well, you can make another call. We have a liberal policy in that regard. I can't offer you the opportunity of calling a bondsman because your offense is unbailable, at present. When you're arraigned, however – ”

“I know,” Blaine said acridly. “I'm familiar with police procedure.

“Here's your briefcase,” she said, handing it back to Blaine. “Come into my office. I'd like to talk with you further.” She started down a side hall, leading the way. Blaine followed. Then, pausing and turning, she said, “My name is July. Police chief Cassandra July.” She held out her hand and they shook. She had a firm grip. “Sit down,” she said as she opened her office door and slipped behind a large, uncluttered desk. In place of a chair she sat on a large, gray exercise ball. “It's good for the back. Builds the abdominal muscles,” she said in response to Blaine's questioning look.

Blaine seated himself on a regular chair facing the desk.

“This Voigt-Kampff test,” Cassandra July said, “that you mentioned.” She indicated Blaine's briefcase. “All that material you carry.” She stretched from side to side for a moment, then leaned forward. “It's an analytical tool for detecting andys?”

“It's our basic test,' Blaine said. “The only one we currently employ. The only one capable of distinguishing the new Nexus-6 brain unit. You haven't heard of this test?”

“I've heard of several profile-analysis scales for use with androids. But not that one.” She continued to study Blaine intently, her face rigid. Blaine couldn't fathom what she was thinking. “Those smudged papers that you have in your briefcase,” Chief July continued, “Azimio Adams, Rachel Berry…your assignments. The next one is me.”

Blaine stared at her, then grabbed for the briefcase. In a moment the sheets lay spread out before him. Cassandra had told the truth. Blaine examined the sheet. Neither of them spoke for a time. At last, Chief July cleared her throat nervously.

‘It's an unpleasant sensation,” she said. “To find yourself a bounty hunter's assignment all of a sudden. Or whatever it is you are, Anderson.” She pressed a key on her desk intercom and said, “Send one of the bounty hunters in here. I don't care which one. Okay, thanks.” She released the key. “Sebastian Smythe will be in here a minute or so from now,” she said. “I want to see his list before I proceed.”

“You think I might be on his list,” Blaine said.

“It's possible. We'll know pretty soon. Best to be sure about these critical matters. Best not to leave it to chance. This info sheet about me.” She indicated the smudged carbon. “It doesn't list me as a police chief. It inaccurately gives my occupation as a dance instructor. Otherwise it's correct, as to physical description, age, personal habits, home address. Yes, it's me, all right. Look for yourself.” She pushed the page to Blaine, who picked it up and glanced over it again.

The door opened and a tall, thin man with chestnut hair and green eyes appeared. He stopped in the doorway, his eyes sweeping up and down Blaine's body in a way that made his skin burn. He's handsome, Blaine noted. His gaze was cold and calculating, but there was something else – a coldness that now seemed to pervade the room. Blaine shivered involuntarily. The man smirked and raised an eyebrow at him, before turning his attention to Chief July.

She rose, indicating Blaine.

“Sebastian Smythe, Blaine Anderson. You're both bounty hunters and it's probably time you met.”

Sebastian shook Blaine's hand, holding it in his grasp for a few beats too long, giving Blaine an appraising look. “Mr. Anderson, what a pleasure. Which city are you attached to?”

Chief July cut in dryly, “San Francisco.” At this, Sebastian whipped around, dropping Blaine's hand. “Here, take a look at his schedule,” she handed Sebastian the sheaf of papers, then neatly plucked the one with her description from Blaine's hand and passed that along, too. “This one comes up next.”

“Say, Cassandra,” Sebastian said. “This is you.”

“There's more,” she said gravely. “He's also got Rachel Berry – the Broadway singer – on his list of retirement assignments. And Azimio Adams. Remember him? He's now dead. This bounty hunter, or android, or whatever he is,” she said, glancing at Blaine with distaste, “got him. We're running a bone marrow test at the lab. To see if there's any conceivable basis – ”

“Azimio Adams – I've met him,” Smythe said. “That big Santa Claus from the W.P.O.?” He pondered, rubbing his chin. “I don't think it's a good idea to run a bone marrow test on him.”

“Why do you say that?” Cassandra asked, clearly annoyed. “It's to remove any legal basis on which this man Anderson can claim that he hasn't killed anyone; that he simply ‘retired an android.' Likely excuse,” she muttered.

Sebastian Smythe said, “Adams always struck me as cold. Extremely cerebral and calculating; detached.”

“You mean like yourself? And me?” Cassandra said, visibly nettled. “A lot of police are that way. We have to be, to do our jobs well.”

“I've seen Rachel Berry perform at the Gold Coast Theater. Amazing voice. I never met her in person, but from what I've heard she has quite a grating personality.” To Blaine he said, “Did you test her out?”

“I started to,” Blaine said. “But I couldn't get an accurate reading. She called your police department. That ended it.”

“And Adams?” Sebastian asked.

“I never got a chance to test him either.”

Sebastian said, mostly to himself, ‘And I assume you haven't had an opportunity to test out Cassandra, here.”

“Of course not,” she interjected, her face wrinkled with indignation. “And you should call me Chief July. I've earned that level of respect, Sebastian.”

“What test do you use?” Sebastian asked Blaine, ignoring his superior.

“The Voigt-Kampff scale.”

“Don't know that particular one.” Both Sebastian and Chief July seemed deep in rapid, professional thought – but not in unison. “I've always said,” he continued, “that the best place for an android would be with a big police organization such as W.P.O. Ever since I first met Adams I wanted to test him, but no pretext ever arose. It never would have, either…which is one of the values such as spot would have for an enterprising android.”

Rising gracefully from her exercise ball, Chief July faced Sebastian and said, “Have you wanted to test me, too?”

A discreet smile traveled across Sebastian Smythe's face. He started to answer, then shrugged. And remained silent. He did not seem afraid of his superior, despite Cassandra July's palpable wrath.

“I don't think you understand the situation,” July said. “This man – or android – Blaine Anderson comes to us from a phantom, hallucinatory, nonexistent police agency allegedly operating out of the old departmental headquarters on Lombard. He's never heard of us and we've never heard of him – yet ostensibly we're both working the same side of the street. He employs a test we've never heard of. The list he carries around isn't of androids; it's a list of human beings. He's already killed – at least once. And if Ms. Berry hadn't called us in he probably would have killed her and then eventually he would have come sniffing around after me.”

“Hmm,” Sebastian Smythe said.

“Hmm,” Cassandra mimicked, wrathfully. She looked, now, as if she bordered on apoplexy. “Is that all you have to say?”

The intercom came on and a female voice said, “Chief July, the lab report on Mr. Adams' corpse is ready.”

“I think we should hear it,” Sebastian said smugly.

Chief July glanced at him, seething. Then she bent down and pressed the intercom key. “Let's have it, Miss Motta.

“The bone marrow test,” Ms. Motta said, “shows that Mr. Adams was a humanoid robot. Do you want a detailed – ”

“No, that's enough.” Chief July settled back, balancing on the large gray ball. She grimly contemplated the far wall and said nothing to either Blaine or Sebastian.

Sebastian said, “What is the basis of your Voigt-Kampff test, Mr. Anderson?”

“Empathic response. In a variety of social situations. Mostly having to do with animals.”

“Ours is probably simpler,” Sebastian said. “The reflex-arc response taking place in the upper ganglia of the spinal column requires several nanoseconds more in the humanoid robot than in a human nervous system.”

Reaching across Chief July's desk as if she weren't even there, he plucked a pad of paper toward him. With a ball-point pen he drew a sketch. “We use an audio signal or a light-flash. The subject presses a button and the elapsed time is measured. We try it a number of times, of course. Elapsed time varies in both androids and humans. But by the time ten reactions have been measured, we believe we have a reliable clue. And, as in your case with Adams, the bone marrow test backs us up.”

An interval of silence passed and then Blaine said, “You can test me out. I'm ready. Of course I'd like to test you, too. If you're willing.”

“Naturally,” Sebastian said breezily. He was, however, studying Chief July. “I've said for years,” Sebastian murmured, “that the Boneli Reflex-Arc Test should be applied routinely and regularly to police personnel, the higher up the chain of command the better. Haven't I, Chief?”

“That's right, you have,” Cassandra replied. “And I've always opposed it. On the grounds that it would lower department morale.”

“I think now,” Blaine said, “you're going to have to sit still for it. In view of your lab's report on Adams.”