"Thank God," his/her familiar complained. "So sick of being that parakeet. Can't you give me a cute female parakeet...?"
    Horus ignored him; they were almost at the shop. He could still feel the fear through the magical trace he had set up to the tailor. He went around to the back door and found the lock shattered, the door it would seem broken down by one good blow. He set Jasper to watch the front in case they left that way and made a mental note to avoid being punched by this man. Inside was the usual damage Horus had come to associate with this thug. Metal racks full of clothing had been tossed this way and that, and in one corner was the tailor himself, who gave a little shriek when he saw Horus. No one else was present; there had been two people, one male, one female—the latter a new development, she had only looked in the back door, just enough to leave a psychic trace—and presumably the third, the one he could not sense.
    The tailor spoke only Italian. Fortunately, Horus could read his mind.
    "Who are you? What do you want?!" the little man demanded.
    "Do not be afraid." He could make that an order if he had to. "I am here to help you. Who was it who was here?"
    "The... the man who comes by for the protection money. Comes by every month, picks up, it's a small amount, not a problem, this time they demanded twice as much, and he had someone with him a huge, monstrous figure, wearing a suit and a hat...." The fear and adrenaline washing through the man's mind weren't doing his short-term memory any good; the picture was unclear. "He didn't look human. Or at least, he was the ugliest man I'd ever seen."
    "I see. Was there anyone else with him?"
    "No, I don't... don't remember anything."
    Horus plucked out the memory of a female voice that had spoken from the back door, a hopelessly blurred face under a bowler hat. She had said, "Adam, come on, hurry up!" The big man had given an interrogative grunt and obeyed.
    "They smashed the place up, they didn't need to do that! I mean I only had half as much of the money, but..."
    "But that is all you were prepared to pay in any case." Horus nodded and wondered what had gotten into the Ray, that he should have recklessly ruined a scheme that was working perfectly. "How long have you been... associated with these people?"
    "This is my ninth payment."
    Horus was miffed at himself. Nine months, and he hadn't noticed this?! Some protector. The whole crime perfectly planned and executed, until a few weeks ago. He did some more digging through the tailor's memory; prior to this, it had always been one man who did the collections, alone. Each of the establishments under "protection" appeared to have its own assigned thug (aside from the new one), who made the drop somewhere else and didn't know where the center of the operation was.
    "I am sorry this man has given you such trouble tonight. If you recall anything further about the events of this evening, or if anyone gets in touch with you about further...."
    "Payment?"
    "Yes. Feel free to get in touch with me."
    "Call the Times, then?"
    "Exactly." It was fairly well known that if you wanted to talk to Horus, your best bet was to call Angel Miller. Sometimes the police had her followed, in hopes that she would lead them to the center of the mystery. Sometimes for press conferences she created an illusion of Horus so the two of them could be seen in the same place. Usually both of her jobs were quite serious, but sometimes the whole thing made her laugh.
    "Why couldn't you get here before?" the tailor lamented. "Look at my stock!"
    Horus was already gone, questing after the psychic traces left behind by the store's unhappy visitors, but there was no way to track them after they got into their vehicle. He collected Jasper and headed back to the paper to resume being Angela for the evening while he thought about developments.
    
    By the time Astro-Man finished at the police station it was midnight, and Dr. Drake would not be available until morning. Given what he had discovered, he decided to make contact with the local superhero, fending off his grief by plunging into the mystery of his friends' deaths.
    "Her desk is right over that way," a startled Times staffer directed. He made his way over to the wide, much-cluttered surface through a haze of cigarette smoke. An incongruous parakeet cheeped at him from its cage in the corner.
    "My name is Astro-Man."
    She nodded; the premier defender of the Santa Clara Valley was of course known to her. "Astro-Man. I've heard a great deal about you." She stood up and shook his hand with a surprisingly firm grip.
    "I'm looking for a mystery man known as Horus."
    "Yes?"
    "I understand that you have some contact with Horus."
    "I do," she nodded briskly.
    "There is a situation, a murder that I am investigating in the city, the murders of Dr. Peter Turnbull and his wife Hazel. I'd like to consult with him if at all possible."
    She nodded again, evidently familiar with the case. "There was something unusual about the murder, then?"
    "It's starting to seem that way," he replied cautiously.
    "I see."
    "Do you think that you would be able to contact Horus at this time?" It was after twelve.
    "Magicians keep unusual hours."
    "Do you think you could contact him by lunchtime tomorrow?"
    "I believe I can do so." She could create an illusion of him walking through the wall right now, but she tried not to do that kind of thing too often.
    "In that case, have him meet me on the roof at this address." He wrote down the Turnbulls' address on a scrap of paper.
    "All right, I'll pass along the message, Mr. Astro-Man."
    "Thank you very much."
    "Pleasure to meet you."
    Having done all he could for the night, Astro-Man returned to his hotel for some sleep. In the morning he would get in touch with Dr. Drake.
    
    
    Dr. Drake, having pulled the late shift the previous night and then spent some hours in his own investigation, spent a few hours in meditation as a substitute for sleep before returning to the office for the early shift, thanks of course to his immediate superior, Dr. Gold. The file on his desk was slightly thicker; the photographs had been developed, and the body had been identified from records of recent prison releases as that of Mr. Tiberius "Tiny" Constantine, a name which suggested that his bad luck had begun somewhere in early childhood. The address listed for him was uptown, an apartment belonging to his mother.
    Tiny had been sent up the river seven years before for breaking into an antiques store, stealing some jewelry, and then lighting a fire to cover his escape. The building had been a total loss (the fire department had been busy with another fire across town) and had later been torn down, but they'd gotten some of his prints off the strongbox that he'd taken the jewelry from, and he had a list of prior convictions. Open and shut case when they picked him up. He had been a model prisoner, caused no trouble, and made parole seven years into his fourteen-year sentence. Despite that, it seemed he had fallen immediately back into bad habits upon his release, although most men don't make a habit of being beaten up by superhumans.
    

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