I'm calling the police.

"My briefcase," Rick said as he rummaged for the Voigt-Kampff forms. "Nice, isn't it? Department issue."

"Well, well," Rachael said remotely.

"Babyhide," Rick said. He stroked the black leather surface of the briefcase. "One hundred percent genuine human babyhide." He saw the two dial indicators gyrate frantically. But only after a pause. The reaction had come, but too late. He knew the reaction period down to a fraction of a second, the correct reaction period; there should have been none. "Thanks, Miss Rosen," he said, and gathered together the equipment again; he had concluded his retesting. "Thats all."

"You're leaving?" Rachael asked.

"Yes." he said. "I'm satisfied."

Cautiously, Rachael said, "What about the other nine subjects?"

"The scale has been adequate in your case," he answered. "I can extrapolate from that, it's clearly still effective."

To Eldon Rosen, who slumped morosely by the door of the room, he said, "Does she know?" Sometimes they didn't; false memories had been tried various times, generally in the mistaken idea that through them reactions to testing would be altered. Eldon Rosen said, "No. We programmed her completely. But I think toward the end she suspected." To the girl he said, "You guessed when he asked for one more try." Pale, Rachael nodded fixedly, "Don't be afraid of him," Eldon Rosen told her. "You're not an escaped android on Earth illegally, you're the property of the Rosen Association, used as a sales device for prospective emigrants. He walked to the girl, put put his hand comfortingly on her shoulder, at touch the girl flinched.

Skin? Skin. Skin. Dry Skin. Skin. Hands made of skin. Dry Skin. Skin.