ed a man. So?

As Greco's victim stepped out of a building, Greco lifted the .45 out of
his pocket. He released the safety and braced the gun with his right
hand. He still wasn't thinking of anything as he took aim ...

And was knocked off his feet.

Greco thought he had been shot. He struggled up again, looked around,
and sighted foggily on his victim.

Again he was knocked down.

This time he lay on the ground, trying to draw a bead. He never thought
of stopping, for Greco was a craftsman.

With the next blow, everything went black. Permanently, because the
watchbird's duty was to protect the object of violence--_at whatever
cost to the murderer_.

The victim walked to his car. He hadn't noticed anything unusual.
Everything had happened in silence.

* * * * *

Gelsen was feeling pretty good. The watchbirds had been operating
perfectly. Crimes of violence had been cut in half, and cut again. Dark
alleys were no longer mouths of horror. Parks and playgrounds were not
places to shun after dusk.

Of course, there were still robberies. Petty thievery flourished, and
embezzlement, larceny, forgery and a hundred other crimes.

[Illustration]

But that wasn't so important. You could regain lost money--never a lost
life.

Gelsen was ready to admit that he had been wrong about the watchbirds.
They _were_ doing a job that humans had been unable to accomplish.

The first hint of something wrong came that morning.

Macintyre came into his office. He stood silently in front of Gelsen's
desk, looking annoyed and a little embarrassed.

"What's the matter, Mac?" Gelsen asked.

"One of the watchbirds went to work on a slaughterhouse man. Knocked him
out."

Gelsen thought about it for a moment. Yes, the watchbirds would do that.
With their new learning circuits, they had probably defined the killing
of animals as murder.

"Tell the packers to mechanize their slaughtering," Gelsen said. "I
never liked that business myself."

"All right," Macintyre said. He pursed his lips, then shrugged his
shoulders and left.

Gelsen stood beside his desk, thinking. Couldn't the watchbirds
differentiate between a murderer and a man engaged in a legitimate
profession? No, evidently not. To them, murder was murder. No
exceptions. He frowned. That might take a little ironing out in the
circuits.

[Illustration]

But not too much, he decided hastily. Just make them a little more
discriminating.