The doorbell rang. Rhoda Kane sprang up from the sofa and almost spilled her drink. She was halfway across the room before she realized she was almost running. She stopped. The hand that held the cocktail glass shook.
Resolutely, she steadied, crossed to the liquor cabinet, put down the glass, and went calmly to the door.
He stood there looking at her through those oddly empty eyes which, through some contradiction of all probability, warmed her.
He came in and closed the door, saying nothing. A touch of panic rippled through her. He was so silent, so unbending, so impersonal. Was this a reflection of her inability to communicate with him? Could their relationship fail because of this shortcoming on her part? What good was love if you couldn't communicate it to the loved one?
She moved into his arms and raised her lips. His arms went around her, but there was no pressure or affection in them. Their lips were an inch apart. Her urge was to give full rein to the heady happiness and excitement within her—to show her love in a kiss.
But she held off and, after a few moments, he drew, back, raised one hand and passed it through her hair. Not with affection, she thought, but rather with curiosity; almost as though he were preoccupied with its composition. He rolled a strand of hair between thumb and finger, testing it.
"It needs cutting," Rhoda said.
"Do you cut it?"
She laughed nervously. "You don't know much about women, do you."
"I know nothing about woman."
Trying to inject a gay note into her voice, she said, "We eat, we sleep, we—we're very functional, really."
He rubbed a finger down her cheek. He pressed the flesh on her neck and watched the muscle spring back as he withdrew his finger.
"Do that to me," he said.
Mystified, Rhoda pressed her finger against his neck until she could feel a pulse in his throat. She withdrew the finger. "Like that?"
"Did it leave a mark?"
"No. Is there something wrong? Do you have a sore throat?"
"My throat is not sore."
Rhoda's frustration was a pitiful thing. How could she get to him? How could she break through his shyness?
"I think you're afraid of me," she said lightly.
He did not answer. He took a backward step and regarded her for a moment with a frown. Then he began to unbutton her blouse.
Rhoda wanted to object. An instinctive protest caused her to draw back. His only reaction to this was to step forward and continue to unbutton her blouse. She wanted to resist but the fear of driving him away held her mute; that and something in his eyes that told of excitement, an unformed phantom of delight that had never materialized but still held sway over her through promise.
He stripped the blouse off. She wore no brassiere underneath, and he regarded her breasts somberly. He pressed a nipple with the tip of one finger and watched it spring back into place.
"Please. I—"
He ignored her. He pressed the nipple again and then found the zipper on the side of her slacks. He pulled it down and pushed the slacks down over her hips. She lifted each foot obediently.
He was on his knees now, running his fingers gentlydown her thighs. Rhoda trembled at the touch. Then she realized it was not love-making on his part—not in any sense. He was preoccupied with the fine hair on her skin. He studied it closely.
"I should have shaved my legs," Rhoda said uncertainly. He raised his head, the cold eyes trained into hers. "This hair grows, too?"
Rhoda caught her lower lip between her teeth. Tears were close to the surface.
This is crazy. This is utterly insane. I'm mad or he's mad. I don't know. I just don't know ...
The last garment was removed and she was naked there in the middle of the living room. He studied her body again, that passionless, preoccupied frown on his face. He drew her down onto the floor and, for a moment, the room spun around Rhoda, her emotional entrapment now the focal point, the eye of the storm that raged in her being. He went on with his minute inspection of her person.
No—no. Please don't. Please don't treat me like this. I'm a woman. Don't be contemptuous of me. Oh, no—please. Don't degrade and humiliate me like this.
There was sudden pain. Rhoda's body wrenched and heaved upward. With a sob, she sank back to the floor.
I must fight. I must not allow this. I must not let him do these cruel, degrading things to me. I must fight but I am afraid to. I am afraid he'll go away and never come back—and if he did that, there would be nothing left for me.
John Dennis seemed to become aware for the first time that certain manipulations caused reaction—the jerking of Rhoda's body and her involuntary cry of pain. He repeated the manipulation with his eyes on her face.
I cannot allow this. I must fight. I must resist. Oh, Rhoda Kane, what has happened to you? Frank, please help, help me. Frank—
But something seemed to flow out of John Dennis and into her mind and soul and spirit; something that made the flesh and what was done to the flesh unimportant.
The touch of John Dennis' hand brought fright as itforetold further pain and degradation. Rhoda sobbed inwardly and braced herself to withstand whatever was to come.
Mad!—mad!—mad!
But it meant nothing.
The building was not for tourists. It wasn't like the Pentagon or the White House or any of the other historical or glamour symbols in Washington, D.C. It was on a side street, and while no one associated it with governmental activity, it was of a size and importance that justified a uniformed attendant in the lobby.
He was a hard-bitten old Irishman named Callahan, and nobody got past him without justification. Also, he was a man of robust hates and great loyalties; a man whom Brent Taber was honored to call friend.
He was also a man Brent Taber was waiting to hear from.
The call came late in the afternoon of the day following Charles Blackwell's search for his would-be brother. Taber picked up the phone.
"It's me—Callahan. He's here, Mr. Taber."
"Thanks. I'll be right over."
"And be hurrying right along if you want to get here in time. He's not one to be restrained indefinitely."
"Tell him the elevator's busted."
Brent Taber slammed the phone down and left. He used an elevator this time and went across town in a cab. Even then, he was almost too late. As he arrived at his destination, Senator Crane was protesting loudly.
"It's just plain stupidity. Elevators don't quit running for no reason. Find a burnt-out fuse. Do something! And do it quick or I'll phone somebody who will!"
"Well, I'll be blessed," Callahan said, completely crest-fallen. "It was the switch, Senator. The blessed switch was off."
"Well, turn it on and get me up to ten."
"Good afternoon, Senator."
Crane whirled. "Brent Taber!" He threw a quick scowl at Callahan and was on the verge of accusing the Irishman of high treason, but he said, "All right. I'm gladyou're here, Taber. We might as well get this thing into the open. Are you going to take me to room ten twenty-six or do I have to take steps to force your co-operation?"
Taber stared morosely at Crane's nose. "Why, Senator, where did you get the idea my department wouldn't help a member of Congress to the utmost?"
"None of your sarcasm. Let's go upstairs."
"All right, Callahan. Let's go upstairs."
They got off on ten and walked down the corridor. "Ten twenty-eight, you said?"
"You know damned well what I said."
Taber opened the door. He stood aside. Crane walked in and stopped dead. He again whirled on Crane.
"It's empty."
"That's right. I could have told you downstairs but you wouldn't have believed me. What were you looking for? New quarters?"
"Taber, I'll break you for this! If you think you can thwart the will of the United States Senate—"
"You've been doing a pretty good job of breaking already."
"I haven't even begun!"
"That still doesn't tell me what you thought you'd find."
"Quit being cute. This time yesterday there were cadavers in here. This was a laboratory!"
Brent looked wearily at his watch. "You're wrong, Senator. This place was vacated exactly an hour and fifteen minutes after your stooge used his court order to locate the cadavers."
"Then you admit you defied a court order—"
"Oh, come off of it. The court order said nothing about leaving things as they were. But that's not important. The important thing is that you give me some understanding and sympathy."
This obviously astounded Crane. "From you? That from the cocky, self-sufficient Brent Taber? That's a little different tune from the one you sang in your office, not too long ago."
"All right. I'll concede that. Let's say you've got me licked. I'll admit I should have reacted a little less arrogantly. My nerves were shot. I'd been up late too often. Now I'm ready to be reasonable."
Crane was scowling. "This isn't like you, Taber—not like you at all. I'm suspicious. Why are you suddenly so agreeable?"
"Because I believe the nation—the world—is in great danger. I think we should all realize that danger and work together."
"Then why have you been fighting me?"
"Because I honestly felt it was the best thing to do. I've changed my mind. I'm willing to tell you the whole story."
"I've heard the whole story. I—"
"Then it was you who had my office taped."
"Exactly. I'm not ashamed of it. When I'm fighting for my constituents I use every weapon at my command."
Brent Taber regarded Crane narrowly. "I underestimated your abilities, Senator. That was fast work. Twenty minutes after I refused you permission to attend that meeting, you had your man briefed and in action. It was the waiter who brought in the coffee, wasn't it?"
Before Crane could answer, Taber gestured and said, "Never mind. That's not important. You've heard the tape, so tell me—what do you want from me? How can I earn your co-operation?"
"Quite simply, Taber. By recognizing my authority as a United States Senator. By keeping me briefed on your progress against this terrible thing that menaces our people. By accepting my active co-operation in destroying it."
"What exactly do you mean byactive?"
"Just what the word implies. Have the men on the senatorial committee you briefed been at all active in helping you?"
"Frankly, no."
"Then what right have they to expect any rewards—shall we say?—for their efforts?"
"You may have a point."
"I believe in rewards where rewards are due."
"And you want—?"
"In plain terms, the right to association in the public mind with the effort to protect the nation."
"You want favorable publicity if and when this matter makes headlines?"
"Is that too much to ask?"
Brent Taber suddenly seemed lost and, in truth, he was wondering why in hell he'd approached Crane in this way. He felt ashamed for even considering the possibility of bending to the will of a windbag like Crane.Good Lord, he thought,I must be tired. I was on the point of playing the jellyfish.
Abruptly his voice sharpened. "I'm sorry, I can't promise you that."
"Taber, you're a fool! I'll get it anyhow. I told you I'd break you if you got in my way, and you've been almost discredited already. Don't you know when to quit?"
"Maybe that's my trouble, Senator. Maybe I'm bull-headed. Anyhow, right or wrong, I'll play out this string to the end. Good day—and I hope you enjoy your new offices."
An hour later, back at his own phone, Taber got a second call from Callahan. "There's another one."
"Another one? I don't follow you."
"A photographer from New York City. He's being real cagey, this one, but I know the breed. The kind that's so stupid-clever he outsmarts himself."
"What's he after?"
"Sounds to me like he wants the same thing as the Senator."
"Hmmm," Taber mused. "Those are mighty popular cadavers, aren't they, Callahan?"
"I'm blessed if they aren't."
"All right. You tell Mr. King—that is his name, isn't it?"
"You've got good eyesight—reading a blasted press card from clear across town."
"I'm clairvoyant, Callahan. Tell you what you do—give me fifteen minutes to make a phone call and then send him after the bodies."
"To the right place?"
"To the right place. And hold out for a good price. Get what the traffic will bear. I'd say maybe fifty dollars. Allow yourself to be bribed real good."
"I'll do that."
As with Rhoda Kane's mind, Les King's seemed to be divided into two sections. One of these kept him in a state of perpetual uneasiness at what the other was forcing him to do. He realized that venting your frustrations against bureaucrats was one thing, but actively engaging in dangerous snooping was quite another.
In the moments of uncertainty after John Dennis sent him to Washington, D.C. with orders to get his hands on certain data, Les King bolstered his courage by telling himself that, what the hell, he'd planned all along to go right ahead and dig out the complete android through whatever means possible. Therefore, meeting and teaming up with Dennis had been a big break.
The rationalization wasn't too comforting, though, because he knew he could never have gone ahead on his own. Also, he realized he and Dennis weren't a team at all. Dennis ordered; he obeyed. Still, the sense of excitement Dennis generated in him had its effect on the other part of his mind, and this was the stronger; this held sway. Somehow, there was the certainty that Dennis did not make mistakes; that everything would work out.
This conviction was jarred a little when he got past the lobby man in the Washington building—a feat easily accomplished—climbed ten flights of stairs, and found room ten twenty-eight empty. Obviously, Dennis had goofed.
King's first instinct was to retreat as quietly as he'd advanced; to get away from the place and report failureto Dennis. But as he went back downstairs, the thought of Dennis' disapproval began weighing more heavily. Maybe something unforeseen had happened. Maybe he could still pull this one out of the fire.
With this hope foremost in his mind, he went into the lobby, assumed a bold front, and demanded: "Where in the hell did the people in ten twenty-eight go?"
And the front worked. The lobby man, a big Irishman, was so impressed he didn't even ask King how he'd gotten into the building. He blinked politely and said, "Blessed if I'm not new here myself. This is my first day. What room was it?"
Then the big Irishman went to a phone to check, and came back with a Georgetown address written out on a slip of paper. Georgetown seemed like an unlikely place to find cadavers and, under normal conditions, King would have been highly suspicious of the whole thing. But what the hell? Nothing was normal about this project, so why not follow through?
King, you're crazy. You're out of your stupid mind.
He raised his hand and a cab cut in toward the curb.
When he arrived at the address, he found himself standing on the walk in front of a large, imposing house. The place still seemed unlikely but you never could tell. The way things were these days, any house in whatever neighborhood was a potential location for almost anything. The way this one was laid out, there could possibly have been a laboratory in the back. A narrow walk led in that direction and, instead of climbing the front steps, King followed it around the corner and found a basement door at the foot of a flight of steps.
He hesitated before ringing the bell. What kind of an approach would he use? The idea was to get inside and see the layout—spot the office, the file cabinets. The feature-story bit? It might work, but who the hell lived here? He'd checked the mailbox beside the front porch but there'd been no name.
Deciding he could only play it by ear, he pulled in his diaphragm and rang the bell.
The door opened quickly—too quickly, it seemed—and King realized he'd struck a pay lode in the myopic-looking little jerk who stood peering out at him. The guy wore a white laboratory coat with two bloodstains on it and was holding a scalpel in his hand.
"I'm Doctor Entman. Can I help you?"
Entman—Entman—for Christ sake. Oh, sure, a neurologist. Had to be the same guy. International authority. TheTimesonce did a feature on his arrival at Idlewild. UN stuff.
"I'm King of theHerald Tribune," Les said, lying easily. "We're shaping up a feature on the more advanced neurological techniques—Sunday supplement material. They sent me down to see if you'd give us some of your views."
"I'd be delighted. Come in. Come in."
"I'm not imposing on your time, I hope."
"Not at all!"
The guy was almost too cordial, but what the hell? All their noses twitched at the smell of publicity.
Entman led him down a cement-floored corridor, the smell of formaldehyde thickening as they went, then into a small office with an open door, on the far side through which Les King was confronted with a frankly gruesome sight—a dissecting room with parts of cadavers lying around like orders in a meat packer's shipping room.
"Won't you sit down, please? There by the desk."
As Entman gestured, he noted King's reaction to the sight and the smell of the dissecting room.
"Just a moment. I'll close that door."
"No, don't bother, Doctor. I'd better get the authentic atmosphere. It makes a better story."
"I admire your courage, young man."
King pointed toward the room. "Something important?"
"Routine—only routine."
Then, to Les King's practiced eye, Entman proved it wasn't routine at all by entering the laboratory and gathering up a loose pile of notes lying there on a table. He seemed to momentarily forget King's presence as he went through the notes, sorted them carefully, and brought them back into the office.
King watched as Entman then deposited them in asmall safe. He closed the safe but didn't lock it. Then he turned, beamed myopically at his visitor, and said, "Now I'm at your service, young man."
"Fine, Doctor. Now, this series we're planning will highlight modern techniques with an eye to illustrating ..."
While King asked questions and Entman answered, another part of King's mind was busy with the real problem at hand. Entman would, no doubt, lock the safe before he left the office. Burglary—a risk King was willing to take—would get him back into the office when no one was around, but how could he open the safe? Walking straight to the thing he was after had been fine. Having been put in a position to get to know what the notes looked like was another astounding piece of good fortune. All this, however, could turn out to mean nothing because he didn't know how to crack a safe.
He would have to report failure after being so close.
"As I said," Entman prattled on happily, "when I was at Johns Hopkins I—"
The desk phone rang. Entman picked it up, answered it and then hung up. "Would I impose if I asked you for a fifteen-minute break? Some people are calling that I must see—an appointment I forgot."
"Not at all," Les King assured him. "I'd like to do a little work on these notes to see if I left out anything."
"So good of you. Boring people, really. I'll get rid of them as soon as possible."
Entman left through an inner door and King was stunned by his good luck. He called it that even while experience and judgment shrieked warnings. This was too pat—too easy. Something was phony in the setup.
But he didn't even have to fight what common sense was telling him. He was too busy opening the safe, spreading the data out on the desktop, and using a small camera he carried in the side pocket of his jacket.
Then, he put the data back in the safe and felt the hot, excitement surge up through his body.
"I'm afraid I owe you a drink," Entman said ruefully.
"You were right. When I got back to the office, he was gone."
Brent Taber grinned, but only with his mouth—his eyes remained somber and weary. "The data was back in the safe?"
"Right where I put it. I'll swear it hadn't been moved."
"He was photographing it thirty seconds after you left."
"But how can you be sure?"
Brent Taber pulled at his ear and stared at a Renoir on the wall of Entman's drawing room without seeing it. "I can't, of course. We can't be sure of anything. It's all based on an idea you gave me."
"What idea?"
"You told me the results of your research on the androids would be valuable to whoever built them—as a guide to perfecting androids that wouldn't die under earth conditions."
"That was obvious logic."
"And it ties in with another thought. A race of beings as advanced as these could take us over without trouble, it would seem."
"Quite true. Except—"
"Except that they themselves may not be able to exist on earth, either; no more so than we could exist on the moon without creating conditions favorable to our physical capabilities."
"So ...?"
"So I'm betting that the ten androids were sent here on a trial-and-error basis, with the objective of perfecting them and creating an android army to move in and take us over."
"It's a thought, but with their power they could achieve the same result with less effort by pulverizing us. Or so it would seem to me."
"True, but maybe they don't want us pulverized; maybe they'd rather take over a working planet than a lot of rubble."
"All that follows logically," Entman admitted, "provided the original hypothesis is true—that they cannot invade us in person."
"Right. But I've got to start somewhere and hope I'm on the right track."
"One thing occurs to me. Eight of the androids died and one was killed. What if all ten had succumbed? How did they plan to get their data?"
"Who knows? I'm not saying the idea is foolproof. But a certain amount of risk had to be involved. If the ten died, they would have missed. Maybe they'd try again in that case. But they were lucky—one survived."
Entman was peering thoughtfully at nothing. "Your idea is bolstered by the fact that the androids were found all over the country. They could have been testing various climates."
"But it's weakened by the creatures being found in cities—the least likely places to escape detection. Why didn't they stay in isolated sections?"
Entman smiled. "I like the way you reach out for arguments against your own theory, but you reached too far for that one. If they'd done that, who would find the androids and do the research work?"
Brent Taber brightened. "You comfort me, Doctor. That little thread got lost in my maze. They wanted the creatures to be found. They didn't expect to fool us. Why else would the one in Chicago go brazenly into a tavern, start to drink and then get into an argument?"
"That's right. The argument must have been started deliberately." Entman beamed on Taber. "I think we deserve another Scotch."
Entman poured the drink. He looked kindly at Taber as he handed it to him, and made what seemed an abrupt change in subject. "They're giving you a very hard time, aren't they, son?"
Taber considered the question as he downed a healthy belt from the glass. "I guess you could call it that. I'm getting pretty unpopular in some places. As a matter of fact, I've wondered why you stick by me."
Entman poured himself a drink. "That hurts me a little, son."
"I'm sorry. It's getting so I don't even know how to treat a friend."
Entman raised his glass in salute. "I'm afraid this sentimental chit-chat doesn't become either of us. Let's go back to our friend from theHerald Tribune. You're sure he photographed the data?"
"I think we can depend on it."
"When I got your call, I acted as fast as I could. The data looks authentic, I'm sure, but it was a quick job of fiction. Now I'd like to know the rest—whatever you didn't have time to tell me."
"It's still a logic-chain, with some pretty flimsy strands in some places, but I'm afraid I'm stuck with it. King was greedy and hungry when I first talked to him, but I think I scared him off. I think, left to himself, he would have let the thing alone.
"So I was surprised when he showed up at the old location. My first thought was that Crane had sent him. It would have been logical—Crane sending a man to try and find out where we'd taken the cadavers he obviously wants to get his hands on.
"But I couldn't connect Crane with King. I couldn't figure how Crane could have known of King's existence." Taber paused to drink and grin his humorless grin. "So I made a daring leap. If it had to be someone else, why not the tenth android himself?"
Entman frowned as he toyed with the idea. "Why, good lord—!"
"You said yourself that the androids probably possessed extraordinary powers."
"Yes, but—"
"All right. If we accept the need-of-data theory, which we have to, what would the tenth android be doing? Trying to get his hands on it. He could conceivably have made contact with King. King took a picture of the ninth android. Our still able and functioning number ten found his way to Doctor Corson's room in Greenwich Village and demolished number nine, for reasons of his own, so he could have made contact with King, put him under domination, and sent him after the data."
"How could he know where the data was?"
Taber shrugged. "I said there were some pretty weak strings in my logic. But it so shaped, as I saw it, where it would stand or smash on one point. If King had waitedin your office for your return, I would have been forced to assume he was there on his own. But he left, so I'm going to figure he took what he came for—the bait you dangled under his nose."
"That brings up a question in my mind. If you're right, King will now make contact with the android, will he not?"
"I assume he will."
"And that will give you a chance to capture him and have the whole ten accounted for?"
"I don't want him until he sends the data back to whoever is waiting for it."
"You'd like to have them build their synthetic army on the specifications I made out?"
"I'd dearly love that."
"Do you know where to contact King again?"
"He's being tailed. They stripped me, but I still have two men left."
"You're being treated miserably!" Entman scowled. "I'm going to talk to some people about this. I refuse to allow—"
"Thanks, but not for a while. I've shaped my operation on a one-man basis. I'd be embarrassed if they relented. I wouldn't know what to do with all the men."
Entman's little eyes shone with affection. "I can only wish you good luck."
"Thanks. I'll need it."
"And one more thing I was wondering."
"What's that?"
"Why do you suppose the tenth android killed the one in the Village?"
"Another case of taking one reason for want of a better one. I think it was his way of delivering the creature to us for research. He couldn't know for sure that we already had his 'brothers.'"
"You're right—you must be," Entman agreed.
"Small consolation. I'd like a few facts to go on for a change instead of having to depend on logic all the time," Taber growled.
"What are you referring to?"
"The data. I'm assuming,ifthat's what's important, thatthe tenth creature has a way of getting the stuff back up there."
"I can help a little on that," Entman said. "I can assure you that from what I've found in those brains, the data could, most likely, be sent mentally."
"You're sure of that?"
"I've found a certain part of those brains developed in a peculiar way—"
Taber smiled. "You're sure of that?"
"Well ... that's my theory. It would appear logical that—"
Taber leaned forward suddenly and extended his glass, the grin on his face showing some genuine humor. "Let's have another drink, Doctor. Then I'll go. I love the factual way this Scotch of yours hits my stomach."
Frank Corson entered the office of Wilson Maynard, Superintendent of Park Hill Hospital. Maynard looked out over the tops of his old-fashioned pince-nez glasses and said, "Oh, Doctor Corson. You phoned for a chat."
It was the rather pompous superintendent's way of saying he was happy to give Frank Corson a little time. He considered all the doctors and nurses at Park Hill his "boys and girls," and he did the "father" bit very well.
"Yes, I—"
Maynard peered even harder. "You don't look well, Frank. Pale. You've been working too hard."
"Nothing important, Doctor Maynard."
"Sit down. Will you have a cigarette?"
"No, thank you. I just wanted to ask you about a transfer."
"A transfer!" This was amazing. "Aren't you happy at Park Hill?"
"I've been very happy."
Maynard went swiftly through a card file on his desk. "You have—let's see—five more months of internship. Then—"
"Then I'd planned to enter private practice. But something personal has come up and I think a change is for the best."
"I'm certainly sorry to hear that."
"One of the men I graduated with went to a hospital in a small Minnesota town. We've corresponded and he'sgiven me a pretty clear picture—a nice town, a need for doctors and physicians—"
"But we need them here in the East, too."
"I realize that, and I'm making the move with some regret. But, frankly, New York City no longer appeals to me. I think perhaps a small hospital is more suited to my temperament."
"I'm certainly sorry to hear this, Corson. But I won't try to dissuade you. Normally, I might bring a little more personal pressure to bear, but I sense that your mind is made up. We're sorry to see you go, but the best of luck to you."
"Thank you, sir."
After Frank Corson left, Superintendent Maynard sorted a memo out of the pile on his desk. The memo concerned Frank Corson. Superintendent Maynard reread it and thought how well things usually worked out. Now it wouldn't be necessary to have that talk with Corson about sloppy work. Obviously there had been something on the young intern's mind for weeks now. Too bad. But let the Minnesota hospital, wherever it was, worry about the trouble and perhaps put Corson on the right track again.
He was their baby now.
Maynard took Corson's card from the files and wrote across it:Transfer approved with regret.
Brent Taber stood in the shelter of a doorway on the Lower East Side of Manhattan and watched an entrance across the street. He had been there for over an hour.
Another hour passed and Taber shifted from one aching foot to the other as a man in a blue suit emerged from the entrance and moved off down the street.
When the man had turned a corner, Taber crossed over and looked up at the brownstone. It was a perfect place to hide—one of the many rooming houses in the city where, if you paid your rent and kept your peace, no one cared who you were or where you came from.
Not even, Taber reflected, if you had been born in a laboratory and had come from someplace among the stars.
He climbed the steps of the brownstone and tried the knob. The door opened. He went inside and found himself in a drab, dark hall furnished with an umbrella stand, a worn carpet, and a table spread with mail.
There was a bell on the table. He tapped it and, after a lazy length of time, a shapeless woman came through a door on the right and regarded him with no great show of cordiality.
"Nothing vacant, mister. Everything I've got is rented."
"I wasn't looking for a room. I'm just doing a little checking."
"My license is okay," the woman said belligerently. "The place is clean and orderly."
"That's not what I'm checking about. There's been some counterfeit money passed in this neighborhood and we're trying to trace it down."
The woman had a pronounced mustache that quivered at this news. "Counterfeit! My roomers are honest."
"I'm sure they are. But some people carry counterfeit money without knowing it. Do they all pay in cash?"
"Only two of them."
"Men or women?"
"One girl—Katy Wynn."
"Where does she work?"
"Down in Wall Street."
"Not much chance we're interested. This money has been turning up around Times Square."
"The other's a man—quiet, no trouble, pays his rent right on the dot every week. John Dennis his name is and he doesn't look like no counterfeiter."
Taber took a forward step. "What's his room number?"
"Six—on the second floor. But he isn't in now. He just went out."
"Okay. Maybe I'll be back. As I said, we don't suspect anybody. We're just checking for sources."
Taber turned toward the door. The woman vanished back into her own quarters as Taber snapped the lock. He stood in the vestibule for a minute or two, studying some cards he took from his pocket, and when she didnot reappear, he opened the door, went back in, and climbed the stairs.
The door to number six was not locked. Taber went inside. The window was small and gave on an areaway. He could see nothing until he turned on the light. Even then, he could see nothing of interest—the room was ordinary in every sense.
But as Brent Taber checked it out, some unusual aspects became apparent. There were two pieces of luggage in the closet. One, an oversized suitcase, stood on end.
And jammed neatly down behind it was the body of Les King. His throat had been cut.
Brent Taber stared down into the closet for what seemed like an interminable time. His eyes were bleak and his mouth was grim and stiff as he passed a slow hand along his jaw.
He took a long, backward step and closed his eyes for a moment as though hoping the whole improbable mess would go away. But it was still there when he opened them again.
He turned, went downstairs, and took the receiver off the phone on the wall by the front door.
The shapeless landlady came out again. She scowled at Taber. "What are you doing here?"
He regarded her with a kind of affectionate weariness. "Have you got a dime, lady?"
Gaping, she pawed into her apron pocket and handed him a coin.
"Thanks much." He dialed. "Is Captain Abrams there?"
There was a wait, during which Brent Taber asked the oddly bemused landlady: "Are you afraid of the dead?"
But before she could decide whether she was or not, Taber turned to the phone. "Captain?.... That's right, Brent Taber ... No, right, here in Manhattan. There's been a little trouble. You'd better come over personally."
He turned to the landlady. "What's the address here, sister?"
And later, with the landlady back in her lair, BrentTaber sat down on the stairs to wait; sat there with surprise at the feeling of relief that filled his mind. He had no feeling of triumph about it; no sense of a job well done. But there was no great guilt at having failed, either.
Mostly, he thought, it was the simplification that had come about. There had been so many confusing and bewildering complications in the affair; improbability piled on the impossible; the ridiculous coupled with the incredible.
But now, with one stroke of a knife, it had been simplified and brought into terms everyone could understand; into terms Captain Abrams of the New York Police Department would grasp in an instant.
A killer was on the loose.
One of Senator Crane's priceless gifts was a sense of timing. Much of his success had sprung from the instinctive knowledge of when to act. He had a sense of the dramatic which never deserted him. As a result, he had been known to turn in an instant from one subject to another—to dodge defeats and score triumphs with bewildering agility.
His preoccupation on this particular day was with a home-state issue—the location of a government plant. After he obtained the floor, he counted the house and noted that only a bare quorum was present. Gradually, the members of the Senate of the United States would drift to their seats. So Crane began reading letters which tended to support his state's claim to the new plant and the benefits that would accrue therefrom.
Crane droned on. The Vice-President of the United States looked down on the top of Senator Crane's massive head and became fruitfully preoccupied with thoughts of his own.
Then, quite suddenly, the line of Crane's exposition changed. The Vice-President wasn't quite sure at what precise point this had come about. He wasn't aware of the change until some very strange words penetrated:
" ... so, therefore, it has become starkly apparent that the American people have been denied the informationwhich would have made them aware of their own deadly danger. Invasion from space is now imminent."
The Vice-President tensed. Had the stupid idiot gone mad? Or had he, the Vice-President, been in a fog when vital, top-secret information had been made public?
He banged the gavel down hard, for want of a better gesture, and was grateful when a tall, dignified man with a look of deepest concern on his face rose from behind his desk out on the floor.
"Will the Senator yield to his distinguished colleague from Pennsylvania?"
Crane turned, scowling. "I will yield to no man on matters of grave import." With that he turned and continued with his revelations. "The people of this nation have been deprived of the knowledge that the invasion from space has already begun. A vanguard of hideous, half-human creatures have even now achieved a beach-head on our planet. Even now, the evil hordes from beyond the stars ..."
The Vice-President looked around in a daze. Had someone forgotten to brief him? Had that project come to a head overnight? The last he'd heard there had been much doubt as to—
" ... The injustice perpetrated on the American people in this matter has been monstrous. And this is not because of any lack of knowledge on the part of the government. It has been because of the petty natures of the men to whom this secret has been entrusted. Jealousies have dictated policy where selfless public service was of the most vital importance ..."
The floor was filling up. The visitor's gallery was wrapped in hushed silence. Newsmen, informed of sensational developments, were rushing down corridors.
And the Vice-President was wondering why he hadn't had the good sense to refuse the nomination.
" ... These invaders from another planet are not strangers to the men in power. It is on record that they are inhuman monsters capable of killing without mercy—yet they are quite ordinary in appearance. They walk the streets, unsuspected, among us. It is on record right here in Washington that these creatures are not humanbut, rather, soulless androids, manufactured to destroy us, by a race so far ahead of us in scientific knowledge that we are like children by comparison ..."
"Will the Senator yield to the Senator from Alabama?"
"I will not. I refuse to be gagged in the process of acquainting the American people with facts upon which their very survival depends."
The floor was crowded now. The press and the visitors' galleries were packed as Senator Crane's words continued to boom forth.
And in the press gallery a reporter from the Sioux CityClarionlooked at a representative of the LondonTimes, and said, "Good God! He's gone off his rocker!"
The Englishman, aloof but definitely enthralled, touched his mustache delicately and answered, "Quite."
Frank Corson rang the bell and waited at the door of Rhoda Kane's apartment. The door opened. She wore a pale blue brunch coat. Her hair glowed in the light of midmorning, but her face was pale and a little drawn.
Her eyes were slightly red, as though she might have been crying.
"Hello, Rhoda."
"Hello, Frank."
"I really didn't expect to find you. I was going to write a note and slip it under the door."
"I didn't feel well today so I didn't go to work."
"May I come in?"
"Of course."
Inside, a shadow of concern moved like a quick cloud across her beautiful face. "You don't look well, Frank."
"I'm quite all right, really. Haven't been sleeping too well, but there's been a lot on my mind."
"I've been hoping you'd phone."
"I wanted to but there didn't seem to be anything to say. Nothing except that I'm sorry I let you down so miserably."
"Frank! You didn't. You really didn't. It was just that—oh, it's not important any more."
"No. It's not important now."
"Would you like a drink?"
"Thanks, no. I've come to say good-bye."
"Good-bye?"
"Yes. I'm leaving Park Hill—leaving New York. I'm going into a small Minnesota hospital to finish my internship. Then I'll probably practice out there somewhere."
Behind the new glitter of her eyes there was stark misery. "Frank—Frank—what went wrong with us?"
The appeal was a labored whisper.
"I don't know, Rhoda. I should know but I don't. I should have known what was wrong so I could have done something about it. It just went sour, I guess."
She turned and walked to the window. He wondered if there were tears in her eyes.
"Good-bye, Rhoda."
"Good-bye, Frank. I'm sorry."
The door hadn't quite closed. Now, as Frank Corson turned, he found it open. A man stood there—a man in a blue suit with empty eyes.
Frank stared at the man for long seconds. His eyes went toward the window. Rhoda had turned. She was watching the man in the doorway, looking past Frank at the creature from somewhere in space who was neither man nor machine.But how—?Frank Corson asked himself the question.Good God! How had this thing come about?
"Not—nothim," he finally exploded.
Rhoda was walking forward. The look of fevered excitement was in her eyes. "Please leave, Frank." She did not look at him as she spoke. She kept her eyes on the man in the blue suit.
"Not him!"
"Please leave, Frank."
But it was too late. The door had closed. The man was looking at Frank. "Sit down," he said.
Frank Corson sat down. He saw the man and he saw Rhoda, but they seemed unimportant. Something had happened to his mind and he was busy struggling with it. That was all that was important.
The strange lethargy that came like a cloud over his mind was beyond understanding.
Captain Abrams looked into the closet and back at Brent Taber. His lips were back a little off his teeth. With Abrams, this indicated anger.
"All right. What does Washington do about this one? Does Washington tell us to be good little boys and go hand out parking tickets?"
"It wasn't like that," Taber said.
"It doesn't much matter how it was. The thing is—how is it going to be now?"
"You got a murder, friend. Plain and simple. What do the New York police do when they get a murder?"
Abrams spoke bitterly. "Sometimes they let a panel truck drive in and haul the body away and that's that."
"Let's save the sarcasm until later. I called you in. It's your case. What do you want me to do?"
"Talk a little, maybe. The other one—now this one. The same killer?"
"I think so."
"What does he look like?"
"Medium height. One-eighty. Around forty. And dangerous."
"Dangerous, he says," Abrams muttered. "Any idea where we might go to have a little talk with him?"
"No, can't say that I have."
"Try the streets of Manhattan—is that it?"
"I guess that's about it." Taber paused. "Wait a minute. If he's looking for a spot to hide in he wouldn't come back here and he certainly wouldn't try King's room. There's just a wide-open chance he might have another location. Wait a minute while I look up an address."
An hour after he'd finished delivering his speech on the floor of the Senate, Crane held a press conference in one of Washington's most important hotels. The place was crowded. He stood on a platform, looked out over a sea of heads, and pointed at an upraised hand for the first question.
"Senator, have you gotten any reaction from the people of your state on the revelations contained in your speech?"
"There has been very little time, but telegrams have been pouring in."
"What is the reaction?"
"Frankly, I haven't had time to read them. However, I think there is little doubt as to the mood of my people. They will be indignant and angry at Washington bungling."
He pointed to another hand.
"Senator, granting the details you outlined are accurate, have you any knowledge as to—"
"Young man.Everydetail I outlined was completely accurate." Senator Crane withered the reporter with a hostile look and pointed elsewhere.
"Senator, did you consult with the people responsible for handling the situation before making your speech?"
"I tried. I was willing to co-operate in every way, but my patience ran out. Also, I was alarmed at the bungling and inefficiency I saw. For that reason I went straight to the people with my story."
"Senator, I have a wire from the governor of your state. It just arrived in response to my query as to his attitude on this affair. The governor says, quote,No comment, unquote. Wouldyoucare to comment on his statement?"
Senator Crane thought he heard a faint ripple of mirth drift across the room. But, of course, he had to be mistaken. "I think the governor replied wisely. I expect to return home and confer with him as soon as possible."
"Senator, can you explain why, out of all the able, sincere officials in Washington, D.C., elected or otherwise, you were the only one with enough wisdom and courage to put this matter before the people?"
"Young man, I am not going to pass judgment on anyone in Washington or elsewhere. Each of us, I'm sure, does his duty as he sees it."
Again it seemed to Senator Crane that he heard a ripple of mirth—louder this time. It had to be something to do with the acoustics. Except that he was suddenly aware of smiles, too. The next question had to do with possible consultation with Russia on the matter of the coming space invasion.
Senator Crane agreed that such consultation should be made and then retired hastily into seclusion. A touch of panic hit him. He felt like a man who was far out in the water without a boat, with the closest land a few hundred feet straight down. Good God! Had he miscalculated? Of course not. He had only to await the verdict of the nation's top newspapers before proceeding with the publicity program that might well make him presidential timber.
John Dennis, for the first time since Rhoda had known him, seemed nervous. He kept licking his lips and shifting his eyes from Rhoda to Frank Corson.
Frank Corson sat quietly, keeping his thoughts to himself. Rhoda crossed to the liquor cabinet and poured a double Scotch. She went to the sofa and sat down a little uncertainly.
"I guess you two haven't met. John, this is Frank Corson."
John Dennis paid no attention. He walked to the sofa, sat down, and took a sheaf of notes from his jacket pocket.
"I've known Mr. Dennis for quite some time," Frank commented wryly.
"Be quiet."
John Dennis' tone was neither hostile nor friendly. They were the words of a person whose mind was on other things. They watched him as his eyes scanned the notes.
He appeared to be memorizing them.
The air became somewhat electric, the silence so deep it seemed to scream. Rhoda looked across at Frank Corson. Frank's expression was empty, as though he'd suffered some traumatic emotional blow and was struggling to recover.
John Dennis stirred. He also appeared to be struggling. He turned his eyes on the drink Rhoda was holding. He took it out of her hand and downed it in a single gulp.
They watched as he went back to work, leafing through the notes, one at a time. As he came close to the end, he lifted his head and shook it violently, as thoughfrom sudden pain. He scowled at the empty glass he'd handed back to Rhoda.
"Do you want another?" she inquired.
"Give me another."
She poured a second Scotch and handed it to him. He drank it like so much water.
The last sheet of notations was covered. Then John Dennis sat motionless for a minute, his frown and uncertainty returning. "It's hard to project the details," he said. "All this detail. Difficult."
He dropped the last sheet and got up and poured himself another Scotch. "They will make an army now," he said. The Scotch went down smoothly. He went to the window and looked out. "This planet is different. The sun there is blue and the air is very thin. Their bodies are nothing, but their heads are very big. Now they will create an army and take this planet."
Frank Corson was shaking his head slowly like a groggy fighter. Rhoda sat huddled on the sofa, her mind such a mixture of tumbling emotions that it seemed to be trying to tear itself out of her head. John Dennis came back and stood in the middle of the room. He swayed drunkenly. "So many things I don't understand. I see people I know—or I should know. I—" He turned his eyes—eyes no longer empty—on Rhoda.
"I want to make love!"
Frank Corson got up from his chair and hurled himself on Dennis.
Rhoda screamed.
Senator Crane sat at his desk. There were a pile of newspapers in front of him. The first one carried a front page story with the headline:
Crane tossed the paper aside listlessly and picked up the second one:
The third paper featured an internationally syndicated columnist, famous for his biting wit:
Senator Crane today launched a one-man campaign to make America space-conscious. If there was any Madison Avenue thinking behind the launching it was certainly lower Madison Avenue.
In order to make his point—exactly what this was confused a vast roomful of newspapermen—the Senator invented a race of creatures called androids. These androids, it seems, look exactly like Tom Smith down the block except that they'd just as soon cut your throat as not.
We fear the Senator must have been watching the wrong television shows—knives yet, ugh!—possiblyJim Bowie, because there wasn't a ray gun nor a disintegrator in his whole bag of exhibits.
All in all, it would appear that the project was pointed toward making the people Senator Crane-conscious rather than aiming their attention at the deadly heavens.
Senator Crane put that paper aside and looked at the next. This one, more so than all the rest, was completely factual:
Crane dropped the paper and got up from the desk. That son-of-a-bitch Taber was to blame for this. Shaping up a goddamn hoax and feeding it out piecemeal. By God—!
He went to the desk and dialed, and when the answer came he said, "Halliday? Senator Crane here. I want to have a little talk with you about that damned tape. It's pretty obvious now that Taber planted it in a deliberate attempt to ... What's that? An appointment! Why,goddamn it, who the hell do you think you are?.... Fifteen minutes next Wednesday? You're talking to a United States Senator—"
But Crane was no longer talking to Halliday. He had hung up.
Crane dialed another number. A pleasant female voice said, "Matthew Porter's office."
"This is Senator Crane. Put Porter on."
"Just a moment."
Crane waited. He waited for what seemed like ages, but a glance at his watch told him it had been less than five minutes. He disconnected and dialed again.
"This is Crane. We got cut off. I want to talk to Porter."
"I'm sorry but Mr. Porter has gone for the day."
"Well, where can I reach him? It's important."
"I'm sorry. Mr. Porter left no number."
"When will he be back?"
"He didn't say."
Crane slammed the phone down. "The bastards!" he snarled. "The lousy, crummy bastards. Running like a pack of scared rats. Bureaucrats! Damned, cowardly, self-appointed opportunists!"
He stopped cursing and sat for a while.
When he got up and left the office he looked and felt old but he had faced a truth. It would not be necessary to campaign next year.
It wouldn't be of any use.