an before me charged with murder must
be taken as a strong presumption of his guilt."

"Was there evidence against me?"

"Yes."

"Who gave it?"

"I cannot reveal his name."

"You must!" Barrent said. "Times are changing on Earth. The prisoners
are coming back. Did you know that?"

"I expected it," the robot-confessor said.

"I must have the informer's name," Barrent said. He took the needlebeam
out of his pocket and advanced toward the panel.

"A machine cannot be coerced," the robot-confessor told him.

"Give me the name!" Barrent shouted.

"I should not, for your own good. The danger would be too great. Believe
me, Will...."

"The name!"

"Very well. You will find the informer at Thirty-five Maple Street. But
I earnestly advise you not to go there. You will be killed. You simply
do not know--"

Barrent pressed the trigger, and the narrow beam scythed through the
panel. Lights flashed and faded as he cut through the intricate wiring.
At last all the lights were dead, and a faint gray smoke came from the
panel.

Barrent left the booth. He put the needlebeam back in his pocket and
walked to Maple Street.

* * * * *

He had been here before. He knew this street, set upon a hill, rising
steeply between oak and maple trees. Those lampposts were old friends,
that crack in the pavement was an ancient landmark. Here were the
houses, heavy with familiarity. They seemed to lean expectantly toward
him, like spectators waiting for the final act of an almost forgotten
drama.

He stood in front of 35 Maple Street. The silence which surrounded that
plain white-shuttered house struck him as ominous. He took the
needlebeam out of his pocket, looking for a reassurance he knew he could
not find. Then he walked up the neat flagstones and tried the front
door. It opened. He stepped inside.

He made out the dim shades of lamps and furniture, the dull gleam of a
painting on the wall, a piece of statuary on an ebony pedestal.
Needlebeam in hand, he stepped into the next room.

And came face to face with the informer.

Staring at the informer's face, Barrent remembered. In an overpowering
flood of memory he saw himself, a little boy, entering the closed
classroom. He heard again the soothing hum of machinery, watched the
pretty lights blink and flash, heard the insinuating machine voice
whisper in his ear. At first, the voice filled him with horror; what it
suggested was unthinkable.