Webb stood back and looked down at his crumpled victim. The heavy pressure was subsiding from his temples, and the gray film of irrational hate faded from his vision.
"Cliff—I—" Then full horror closed in on him and he choked off. His hands felt slick and slippery, but it was his own sweat, not blood. The tactile memory of his fingers squeezing, crushing Clifford's throat, fed details of touch, texture and temperature to his tortured but clear brain. His surgeon's fingers were twitching, trying to tell him what they had discovered moments ago, but a more over-whelming thought blocked the message.
I've taken a man's life ... and my own. And ruined Anne's happiness. I've brought her tragedy instead of happiness.
No, not tragedy. Inconvenience. It would still be a long life for Anne. She would find a suitable mate, then her child would quickly erase the memory of this day.
Still, he had committed murder, the first deliberate murder the world had known in centuries. "Damn you!" he screamed down at the body. "Why didn't you protect yourself?"
"Oh, I did, Webb, I did!"
Webb spun to face the direction of the voice behind him. His eyes must be playing tricks—an after-image, perhaps. "Who are you?" Webb demanded.
"Clifford Ainsley. The prototype, that is, in the flesh and not a roboid." He nodded at the body on the floor. "Ainsley the Second. Strictly a lab job."
"Cliff? Oh, my God!" Webb fell into a chair and sobbed with relief.
Clifford Ainsley came to him and put a hand to his shoulder. "I'm truly sorry, Webb, but it was better this way. We can be thankful that I anticipated your actions."