and across the street was the home of
Havening, the local interior decorating champion. Here was Billy
Havelock's house. Billy had been his best friend. They had planned on
being starmen together, and had remained good friends after
school--until Barrent had been sentenced to Omega.

Here was Andrew Therkaler's house. And down the block was the school he
had attended. He could remember the classes. He could remember how,
every day, they had gone through the door that led to the closed class.
But he still could not remember what he had learned there.

Right here, near two huge elms, the murder had taken place. Barrent
walked to the spot and remembered how it had happened. He had been on
his way home. From somewhere down the street he had heard a scream. He
had turned, and a man--Illiardi--had run down the street and thrown
something at him. Barrent had caught it instinctively and found himself
holding an illegal handgun. A few steps further, he had looked into the
twisted dead face of Andrew Therkaler.

And what had happened next? Confusion. Panic. A sensation of someone
watching as he stood, weapon in hand, over the corpse. There, at the end
of the street, was the refuge to which he had gone.

He walked up to it, and recognized it as a robot-confessional booth.

Barrent entered the booth. It was small, and there was a faint odor of
incense in the air. The room contained a single chair. Facing it was a
complex, brilliantly lighted panel.

"Good morning, Will," the panel said to him.

Barrent had a sudden sense of helplessness when he heard that soft
mechanical voice. He remembered it now. The passionless voice knew all,
understood all, and forgave nothing. That artfully manufactured voice
had spoken to him, had listened, and then had judged. In his dream, he
had personified the robot-confessor into the figure of a human judge.

"You remember me?" Barrent asked.

"Of course," said the robot-confessor. "You were one of my parishioners
before you went to Omega."

"You sent me there."

"For the crime of murder."

"But I didn't commit the crime!" Barrent said. "I didn't do it, and you
must have known it!"

"Of course I knew it," the robot-confessor said. "But my powers and
duties are strictly defined. I sentence according to evidence, not
intuition. By law, the robot-confessors must weigh only the concrete
evidence which is put before them. They must, when in doubt, sentence.
In fact, the mere presence of a m