The Penultimate Truth

by Philip K. Dick

But the bedroom contained no such man. In that or any other state. The dead man, peaceful, under his covers, was alone in the room—he and Webster Foote: no one else. And, as Foote made his way cautiously into the adjoining room, through which entry, by the window, had originally been made, he saw no one there either. Behind him his two trained leadies followed; he saw no one there and they saw no one there and they at once began opening side doors, poking into a bathroom with wondrous mosaiclike tile, then two closets. “He got away,” Foote said, aloud. His two leadies said nothing; no comment was indicated. Returning to the phalanx of Lindblom leadies guarding the bedroom hall door, Foote said, “Inform your type VI below that they came too late.” “Yes, Mr. Foote,” the in-charge leady said, and did so. “The response,” it informed him in its metallic, gracious manner, “is that such could not be. The killer of Mr. Lindblom is in the bedroom area; anything else is impossible.” “According to your kind of deduct leady logic, perhaps,” Foote agreed. “But empirical fact says otherwise.”