After parking the department's speedy beefed-up hovercar on the roof of the San Francisco Hall of Justice, bounty hunter Blaine Anderson, briefcase in hand, descended to Jake Puckerman's office.

“You're back awfully soon,” Jake said, leaning back in his chair and swiveling from side to side.

“I got what you sent me for.” Blaine seated himself facing the desk. He set his briefcase down. I'm tired, he realized. It had begun to hit him, now that he had gotten back. He wondered if he would be able to recoup enough for the job ahead. “How's Shannon?” he asked. “Well enough for me to go talk to her? I want to run some things by her before I tackle the first of the andys.”

Puckerman said, “You'll be trying for Azimio Adams first. The one that lasered Shannon. Best to get him right out of it, since he knows we've got him on our list.”

“Before I talk to Shannon?”

Jake reached for a sheet of paper. “Adams has taken a job with the city as a trash collector, a scavenger.”

“Don't only specials do that kind of work?”

“Adams is mimicking a special. An anthead – very deteriorated – or so he pretends to be. That's what suckered Shannon. Azimio Adams apparently looks and acts so much like an anthead that Shannon let her guard down. Are you sure about the Voigt-Kampff scale now? You're absolutely certain, from what happened in Seattle, that – ”

“I am,” Blaine said shortly. He did not amplify.

Jake said, “I'll take your word for it. But there can't be even one slip-up.”

“There never could be in andy hunting. This is no different.”

“The Nexus-6 is different.”

“I already found my first one,” Blaine said. “And Shannon found two. Three, if you count Adams. Okay, I'll retire Adams today, and then maybe tonight or tomorrow talk to Shannon.” He reached for the paper in Puckerman's hand – the information sheet on Adams.

“One more thing,” Jake said. “A cop from the W.P.O. satellite office in Kenya is on his way here. While you were in Seattle I got a call from him. He's aboard an Aeroflot rocket that'll touch down at the public field, here, in about an hour. His name's Abasi Omondi.”

“What's he want?” Rarely did W.P.O. cops show up in San Francisco. They were usually only dispatched on international matters.

“W.P.O. is enough interested in the new Nexus-6 types that they want a man of theirs to be with you. An observer – and also, if he can, he'll assist you. It's for you to decide when and if he can be of value. But I've already given him permission to tag along.”

“What about the bounty,” Blaine asked anxiously.

“You won't have to split it,” Jake said, smiling crookedly.

“I just wouldn't regard it as financially fair.” He had absolutely no intention of sharing his winnings with a thug from W.P.O. He studied the printout on Adams. It gave a description of the man – or rather the andy – and his current address and place of business: the Bay Area Scavengers Company with offices on Geary. “According to this, the guy is huge,” Blaine said with a whistle.

“You wanna wait ‘til the Kenyan guy can help you?” Jake asked.

Blaine bristled. “I've handled andys three times my size before. And I've always worked alone. Of course, it's your decision. I'll do whatever you say. But I'd just as soon tackle Adams now, without waiting for Abasi - what's his name again?”

“Omondi.”

“Right – Abasi Omondi. Time is of the essence here, and this Adams andy likely is already on the run. I'd like to catch him before he becomes another district's problem.”

“And another bounty hunter's bonus pay,” Jake grins. “But seriously, that's fine. You go ahead on your own. You can bring Omondi in on the next one – a Ms. Rachel Berry – you have the printout on her, too.”

Having stuffed the sheaf of printed pages into his briefcase, Blaine left his boss' office and ascended once more to the roof and the parked hovercar. And now let's visit Mr. Adams, he said to himself, patting his laser tube.

For his first try at the android Azimio Adams, Blaine stopped off at the offices of the Bay Area Scavengers Company.

“I'm looking for an employee of yours,” he said to the severe, gray-haired switchboard woman. The scavengers' building impressed him; large and modern, with lots of office space. The polished wood floors and genuine oil paintings reminded him that trash collection and disposal had become, since the war, one of Earth's most important and lucrative industries.

“Mr. Ryerson,” the switchboard woman informed him. “He's the personnel manager.” She pointed to an impressive, genuine oak desk at which sat a prissy individual wearing a pink shirt, the arms of a yellow knit sweater tied around his neck.

Blaine marched toward him, holding out his police badge in place of pleasantries. “Where's your employee Azimio Adams right now? At his job or at home?”

After reluctantly consulting his records and sighing dramatically, Mr. Ryerson drawled, “Adams ought to be at work. He's scheduled to flatten hovercars at our Daly City plant. However – ” The personnel manager typed into his computer for a moment, then made an inside video call to someone else in the building. “He's not, then,” he said, terminating the call. Turning back to Blaine he said, “Adams didn't show up for work today. No explanation. What's he done, officer?” Mr. Ryerson leaned forward, hungry for gossip.

Blaine shuddered and started to walk away without responding. Before he was out of earshot he stopped and turned back. “If he should show up,” Blaine said, “don't tell him I was here asking about him. You understand?”

“Yes, I understand,” Ryerson said sulkily, as if his deep schooling in police matters had been derided.

In the department's beefed-up hovercar, Blaine next flew to Adams' apartment building in the Tenderloin. We'll never get him, he told himself. They – Puckerman and Beiste – waited too long. Instead of sending me to Seattle, Puckerman should have sent me after Adams – better still last night, as soon as Shannon Beiste got shot.

What a grimy place, he observed as he walked across the roof to the elevator. Abandoned animal pens, encrusted with months of dust. And, in one cage, a no longer functioning false animal, a chicken. By elevator he descended to Adams' floor and found the hall unlit, like a subterranean cave. Using his police A-powered sealed-beam light he illuminated the hall and once again glanced over the printed information sheet. The Voigt-Kampff test had been administered to Azimio Adams. That part could be bypassed and he could go directly to the task of destroying the android.

Best to get him from out here, he decided. Setting down his weapons kit he fumbled it open and fished out a nondirectional Penfield wave transmitter. He punched the key for catalepsy, himself protected against the mood emanation by means of a counterwave broadcast through the transmitter's metal hull directed to him alone.

They're now all frozen stiff, he said to himself as he shut off the transmitter. Everyone, human and andy alike, in the vicinity. No risk to me; all I have to do is walk in and laser him. Assuming, of course, that he's in his apartment, which isn't likely.

Using an infinity key, which analyzed and opened all forms of locks known, he entered Adams' apartment, laser tube in hand.

No Adams. Only semi-ruined furniture, a place of decay. In fact, there were no personal articles. What greeted him consisted of unclaimed debris which Adams had inherited when he took the apartment and which in leaving he had abandoned to the next – if any – tenant.

I knew it, he said to himself. Well, there goes the first thousand dollars bounty; probably skipped all the way to the Antartic Circle. Out of my jurisdiction. Another bounty hunter from another department will eventually find him and claim the money. On, I suppose, to the andys who haven't been warned, as was Adams. On to Rachel Berry.

Back on the roof in the hovercar, he reported by phone to Jake Puckerman. “No luck on Adams. He probably left right after he lasered Shannon.” He held the phone at arm's length to check the time. “Want me to pick up Omondi at the field? It'll save time and I'm eager to get started on Ms. Berry.” He already had the printout on her laid out before him and had begun to study it.

“Good idea,” Puckerman said, “except that Mr. Omondi is already here. His Aeroflot ship – as usual, he says – arrived early. Just a moment.” Blaine heard only silence as he was placed on hold. “He'll fly over and meet you where you are now,” Jake said, returning to the screen. “In the meantime, read up on Ms. Berry.”

“A Broadway singer. Allegedly from Israel. At present attached to the Gold Coast Theater in San Francisco.” He nodded in reflexive agreement, his mind on the information sheet. “Must have a good voice to make connections so fast. Okay, I'll wait here for Omondi.” He gave Puckerman his location and hung up.

I'll pose as a Broadway fan, Blaine decided as he read further. I particularly would like to see her as Elphaba in Wicked. In my personal collection I have mp3s of such old-time greats as Idina Menzel and Kristin Chenoweth. That'll give us something to discuss while I set up my Voigt-Kampff equipment.

His phone buzzed and he glanced at it. Sylvester-Hummel Association, read the caller id. What do they want? he wondered. AS far as he could discern, the Sylvesters and Hummels had proven to be bad news. And undoubtedly would continue to be, whatever they intended. Sighing, he answered the call.

Kurt Hummel's face appeared on the tiny screen. “Hello, Blaine Anderson.” His tone seemed placating and that caught Blaine's attention. “Are you busy right now or can I talk to you?”

“Go ahead,” Blaine said.

“We of the association have been discussing your situation regarding the escaped Nexus-6 types and knowing them as we do we feel that you'll have better luck if one of us works in conjunction with you.”

“By doing what?”

“Well, by one of us coming along with you. When you go out looking for them.”

“Why? What would you add?”

Kurt said, “The Nexus-6 would be wary at being approached by a human. But if another Nexus-6 made the contact – ”

“You specifically mean yourself.”

“Yes,” he nodded, his face sober.

“I've got too much help already.”

“But I really think you'll need me.”

“I doubt it. I'll think about it and call you back.” At some distant, unspecified future time, he said to himself. Or more likely never. A part of him longed to be near Kurt again – to feel Kurt's breath tickle his ear.  But he forced that thought aside. That's all I need, he thought. Kurt Hummel popping up through the dust at every step, making me lose focus.

“You don't really mean it,” Kurt said. “You'll never call me. You don't realize how agile an illegal escaped Nexus-6 is, how impossible it'll be for you. We feel we owe you this because of – you know. What we did.”

Blaine laughed mirthlessly. “That's complete bullshit. There is nothing you can say to convince me, Kurt, that your – or should I say your owners' – company has anything but its own interests at heart. Stop wasting my time.”

Kurt's face crumpled a bit and Blaine hated himself for feeling sorry for him. “You're right,” Kurt said softly, with defeat. “Sue wanted me to say we were offering this as an apology, but the company really just wants me there so I can observe and report back to them on anything the Nexus-6 types do that give them away.”

“Why?” Blaine asked, intrigued.

“So they can fix those things in the next model. They're hoping that someday you won't be able to tell the difference between humans and andys with any type of test.”

“That'll never happen. You can't manufacture humanity – empathy,” Blaine said forcefully. “Anyway, why are you telling me this? What can you possibly stand to gain?”

A tear rolls down Kurt's cheek and he sniffs, blue eyes tinged with red. “I hate her, you know. Sue. Until today I really believed I was human. I have such vivid memories, things that are so important to me. And that's just been ripped away. I know you think I don't have any feelings, but it's not true. I don't even know what's real anymore,” he sobbed.

“Hey, there. Don't cry,” Blaine said feebly, compelled to offer some sort of comfort in spite of his mind's objections that Kurt is just a machine.

“And Sue thinks she can just keep using me. That, after shattering my whole world that she can just snap her fingers and demand that I keep on doing whatever she says.” He pulled out a white handkerchief and wipes at his eyes and nose. Schooling his voice with steely determination, he continued. “Well, I'm not going to be her pawn anymore.”

“Um, good for you…” Blaine says uncertainly, holding his phone at arm's length to check the time again. “Well, I have to – ”

“Wait!” Kurt shouts. “Let me help you. It will be my perfect revenge on the Sylvester-Hummel Association. I'll help you ‘retire' the escaped andys, but I won't give Sue the information she wants. I'll just lie. I'm very convincing, you know.”

“That's an interesting offer,” Blaine said hesitantly. “But I don't think – ”  

“I can be very loyal,” Kurt cut in, eyeing Blaine appreciatively. “In fact, I've taken quite a liking to you Mr. Anderson.” He bit his lip and blinked a few times. “Plus, we share something very unique in common.”

A mix of fear and desire licked dangerously up Blaine's spine. Pushing it aside, he said cooly, “I don't know what you're talking about.”

“Okay, Mr. Anderson. Have it your way. But believe me, without my help one of them will get you before you get it.”

“Goodbye,” Blaine said forcefully and ended the call. What kind of a world is it, he asked himself, when an android calls up a bounty hunter and offers him assistance?

As he resumed reading the information about Rachel Berry, a hovercar taxi spun down to land on the roof a few yards off. From it a bulky, dark-skinned man with a round face stepped out and smiling, his hand extended, approached Blaine.

“Mr. Anderson,” he asked with a Kenyan accent. “The bounty hunter for the San Francisco Police Department?” The empty taxi rose, and the man watched it go, absently. “I'm Abasi Omondi,” the man said as he opened the door and squeezed in beside Blaine.

As they shook hands, Blaine noticed that the W.P.O. representative carried an unusual type of laser tube, a model which he had never seen before.

“Oh this?” Omondi said, following Blaine's line of sight. “Interesting, isn't it?” He tugged it from his belt holster. “I got this on a recent trip to Mars.”

“I thought I knew every handgun made,” Blaine said. “Even those manufactured on Mars.”

“My buddies and I made this ourselves during our visit,” Omondi said, beaming like Santa, his round face inscribed with pride. “You like it? What is different about it, functionally, is – here, take it.” He passed the gun over to Blaine, who inspected it expertly, turning it over and looking for any unique features.

“How does it differ functionally,” Blaine asked. He couldn't tell.

“Pull the trigger.”

Aiming upward, out the window of the car, Blaine squeezed the trigger of the weapon. Nothing happened. No beam emerged. Puzzled, he turned to Omondi.

“The triggering circuit,” Omondi said cheerfully, “isn't attached. It remains with me. You see?” He opened his hand, revealing a tiny unit. “And I also can direct it, within certain limits. Irrespective of where it's aimed.”

“You're not Omondi, you're Adams,” Blaine said, pressing the emergency button on the floor of his car with his toe.

“Why won't my laser tube fire?” Omondi – or Adams – said, stabbing at the triggering device in his hand.

“A sine wave,” Blaine said. “That phases out laser emanation and spreads the beam into ordinary light.”

“Then I'll have to break your pencil neck.” The android dropped the device and with a snarl, grabbed with both hands for Blaine's throat.

As the android's hands sank into his throat, Blaine fired his regulation issue old-style pistol from its shoulder holster. The .38 magnum slug  struck the android in the head and its brain box burst. The Nexus-6 unit which operated it burst into pieces, splattering throughout the car. Bits of it rained down on Blaine. The body of the android rocked back, collided with the car door, bounced off and struck heavily against Blaine. He found himself struggling to shove the twitching remnants of the android away.

Shakily, he at last reached for his phone and called the Hall of Justice. “Shall I make my report?” he said. “Tell Jake Puckerman that I got Adams.”

“'You got Adams',” repeated the officer on duty. “He'll understand that, will he?”

“Yes,” Blaine said and ended the call. He took a few long breaths, willing his body to stop shaking. Damn, that came close, he said to himself. I must have overreacted to Kurt Hummel's warning. I went the other way and it almost finished me. But I got Adams.

Blaine's adrenal gland, by degrees, ceased pumping its jolting secretions into his bloodstream; his heart slowed to normal, his breathing gradually became less frantic. But he still shook. Anyhow, I made myself a thousand dollars just now, he informed himself. So it was worth it. And I'm faster to react than Shannon Beiste. Of course, her experience evidently prepared me, I have to admit that. Shannon had not had such a warning.

Again picking up the phone he called Tina. His wife's face, sodden with the six-hour self-accusatory depression which she had prophesied, manifested itself on the screen. She was dressed all in black, with deep maroon lips and heavy black eyeliner rimming her eyelids. He had never seen her dressed this way.

“What happened to the 594 I dialed for you before I left?”

“I redialed,” she said flatly. “What do you want?” Her voice sank into a dreary drone of despondency. “I'm just so tired and I have no hope left, of anything. Of our marriage, especially. I mean, you're probably going to get killed by one of those andys. It's just a matter of time…” In the background, the racket of Mercedes Jones and her bubbly guests boomed and brayed, eradicating her words. He saw her mouth moving but heard only the TV.

“Listen,” he broke in. “Can you hear me? I'm on to something. A new type of android that apparently nobody can handle but me. I've retired one already, so that's a grand to start with. You know what we're going to have before I'm through?”

Tina stared at him sightlessly. “Oh,” she said, nodding.

“I haven't said yet! Can you just listen to me?” Blaine's anger boiled up to the surface.

“I'm sorry. What is it, honey?” she asked listlessly.

“I have a grand already and I might have a lot more before I'm through. Start thinking about what kind of animal you want, baby. A real animal,” his voice rose in excited tones in spite of his wife's stupor.

“That would be wonderful,” she said remotely. “Oh, that reminds me. I think there might be something wrong with our sheep.”

“What? What's wrong with it?” he asked.

“Well, I don't really know,” she said slowly. “But our neighbor, Finn Hudson, called a little while ago and said I should check on it.”

“Well have you?” Blaine asked slowly, feeling exasperated.

“Not yet…” Tina's eyes wandered as her focus drifted again.

“Damn it, Tina. I don't have time for this!” Blaine closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths. “Just, please, go over to your mood organ and dial that 481 for renewed hope. Okay. Do it now, while I'm on the phone.” Slowly, Tina walked over to her console, the image on the phone bouncing dizzyingly as she moved. “Okay, good. Can you hear me now?”

Tina blinked and nodded, holding the phone close to her face again. “Yes, I'm feeling a little better already.”

“Okay. Now, I can't stay on the phone anymore. But I want you to go up on the roof and check on the sheep. If there's anything wrong, call the repair shop. It's the New Directions Animal Hospital. The number should already be in your phone.”

“Okay, Blaine, I'll do it.”

“Good.” Blaine sighed and rubbed his chin, the rough stubble scratching his palm. “You know, Tina, it's ridiculous that I have to practically beg you to do just this one little thing for us, for our family.” He looked at her again, noticing the dark clothes and makeup once more. “What is that you're wearing? Is it some kind of costume?”

Tina frowned in annoyance. “It's vintage gothic. It's important to me to express myself through my clothes. Do you seriously not know that about me?”

“I better go, before we both say some things we regret. I'll see you tonight.” Tina opened her mouth to speak, an indignant expression on her face, but he ended the call and the screen zapped into blackness. Damn her, he said to himself. What good does it do, my risking my life? She doesn't care whether we own an ostrich or not. Nothing penetrates.

Broodingly, he leaned down, gathered together on the car floor his crumpled papers, including the information on Rachel Berry. No support, he informed himself. Most androids I've known have more vitality and more purpose to their lives than my own wife. She has nothing to give me. And if I'm honest with myself, he thought, I've never even been attracted to her. Not really.

That made him think of Kurt Hummel again. His advice to me as to the Nexus-6 mentality, he realized, turned out to be correct. Assuming he doesn't want any of the bounty money, maybe I could use his help.

The encounter with Adams had changed his ideas rather massively.

Turning on the hovercar's engine he whisked up into the sky, heading toward the Gold Coast Theater, where, according to Shannon Beiste's notes, he would find Rachel Berry at this time of the day.

He wondered, now, whether he would have problems with her, too. She must have an excellent voice to be a regular with that theater. A good singing voice was a very attractive quality to him. In fact, he probably never would have ended up with Tina if they hadn't sung together in their high school glee club. He had to be careful. He couldn't afford to be distracted. It was a dangerous thing that some androids seemed attractive to him, and he had even felt emotional connections with some. It was an odd sensation, knowing intellectually that they were machines but emotionally reacting anyhow.

For example, Kurt Hummel. He had felt a strong emotional connection, true pain, for the android when he had cried today. Both times, actually. And as much as he didn't want to admit it to anyone, including himself, he couldn't deny that he found the man attractive. He had longed to touch, to feel the contours of that lithe body under his hands, to explore him with his lips – but no. It was bad enough to have these thoughts about androids. After all, sex with an android was technically illegal, even though everyone knew how the ‘basic companion models' truly were used. Certainly it was easier to get away with that kind of behavior on the Martian colonies. Here on Earth those laws were enforced strictly, perhaps as additional incentive to get humans to emigrate and take their ‘companions' with them. But to be caught having sex with a man – that would surely bring a life sentence, or possibly even termination. After all, it wasn't fair for cities to waste precious resources on people who so willfully ignored their responsibility to contribute toward perpetuating the human race, as the latest opinions from the Supreme Court stated. It was much safer for Blaine to focus his desires on women.

He glanced at the printout on Rachel Berry once more. How old did it say she was? Oh, yes. Twenty-four. Judged by appearance, which, with andys, was the only useful standard. The picture was a bit blurry, but she looked quite attractive. Slim and petite, with long brown hair and large eyes.

It's a good thing I know something about Broadway, Blaine reflected. That's another advantage I have over Shannon Beiste. I'm more culturally oriented.

I'll try one more andy before I ask for Kurt Hummel's help, he decided. If Ms. Berry proves exceptionally hard – but he figured she wouldn't. Adams had been the rough one. The others, unaware that anyone actively hunted them, would crumble in succession, like a set of carefully placed dominos.

As he descended toward the ornate, expansive roof of the theater, he loudly sang a potpourri of Broadway tunes. Even without the Penfield mood organ at hand, his spirits brightened into optimism. And into hungry, gleeful anticipation.