Dr. Rudolph Entman, one of the world's foremost neurologists, stripped off his rubber gloves and scowled at the strange body that lay on the table before him.
"Goddamn it," he fumed, "it's artificially constructed. It's been hand-made—manufactured. And there's one thing I'd give a few years of my life to know."
Brent Taber stared moodily into Entman's myopic little eyes and asked, "What's that, Doctor?"
"How in hell did they do it?"
"Who do you supposetheyare?"
Entman looked ceilingward in a manner that indicated he might either be hunting forthemsomewhere out beyond, or sending a prayer heavenward in a plea for Divine counsel and guidance.
"Some form of entity with far greater intelligence than we possess."
"You can tell me more than that, can't you?" Brent asked sharply. And when Doctor Entman looked up in surprise, he added, "Sorry for the tone. My nerves have gotten a little edgy lately."
Entman smiled understandingly. "I don't wonder. As to this living machine—no ... it's not a machine because it didlive. Let's see what we can figure out. What's it made of? The material used in its construction is—oh, hell—how can I put it? This way, maybe. Take a wool blanket and call it genuine flesh, blood and bone. Now, take a blanket made of one of the new synthetics—Dacron or any one of the other equally serviceablematerials—call that the material this creature is made of. Figuring it that way—"
"You mean our visitor's body is constructed of things that feel and look like flesh, blood and bone—work as well, but aren't. Right?"
"Right. But, of course, that doesn't tell you anything you didn't know before."
"But what about their potentials, their capabilities? They'rehuman—in the sense that they're exact duplicates of humans—and theylive, but what about emotions? If we accept the somewhat unscientific theory that it's a soul which is responsible for feelings and emotions, these ... these ... creatures would be handicapped." Brent paused as if uncertain of his ground. "Wouldn't they?" he asked lamely. "I mean, they couldn't—theoretically, at least—react to situations ... or other people's emotions."
Doctor Entman nodded his head and murmured, "I would be inclined to agree. Except that we're obviously dealing with superior intelligence—I'm speaking about the "people" responsible for these androids—and we have no idea how far they might have progressed in duplicating that indefinable something we call a soul."
For a moment he lapsed into silence. Then looked up at Brent abruptly. "Have you read anything on Kendrick's experiments with synthetic emotion?"
"Can't say that I have."
"Kendrick, down at Penton Technological Institute, has done some remarkable things in drawing the stuff of human emotion from one person, holding it on a tape, and transferring it to another person."
"On the face of it, that sounds ridiculous."
"Doesn't it? Nevertheless, the vibrations set up, or created you might say, by a person in anger, consist of some sort ofstuff—in the sense of an incredibly high frequency wave. Radio or television waves are the best comparisons.
"Kendrick, in one demonstration, took a young man who was very much in love with a certain young lady. A really love-sick lad. He placed him in the recording unit gave him the young lady's picture, and told him to let his mind dwell on her to the exclusion of all else."
Doctor Entman smiled briefly. "This, I imagine, wasn't difficult for the lad to do. Entman then put another young man, one who was unacquainted with the girl, into a receiving unit and exposed him, after giving him the girl's picture, to the vibrations created by the lovelorn chap. Later, they saw to it that the second lad was introduced to the girl. The results were rather startling, in that the young lady suddenly had two ardent suitors in place of one."
Brent Taber scratched his ear and looked dubious. "That sounds pretty sensational. But maybe the second lad just plain happened to fall in love with the girl by natural processes."
"True, but the experiments tended to eliminate that possibility. Other emotions were tested. How about a man walking up to a man he'd never seen before in his life and busting him in the nose?"
"Okay, okay. Then you think—"
"I think a lot of things. Here, I see the possibility of a race with superior science, having moved far ahead of us in the directions Kendrick is pointing toward in his research. For instance, with more advanced knowledge and know-how, they've probably been able to charge a synthetic body with a complete set of functioning emotional responses. Grant them that and we can also concede a tailor-made ego."
"I don't mind admitting I'm scared, Doctor," Brent Taber said.
"I think it's a time to be scared."
"But if a race of people were that advanced, if their intention is hostile, why do they pussyfoot around this way? Why don't they just come down and take us over?"
"I've wondered that, too. And yet, a race on some planet out there in the universe might not evolve according to what we consider a logical pattern."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean that while they can create a synthetic man, their interests, and therefore their progress, may have stayed in peaceful channels. For instance, they may not have bothered with anything as elementary as the atom bomb."
"It's a thought."
"A wishful thought, I'll admit. But it does have some validity. Also, it has a fact of some possible value to back it up."
"What fact?"
"That theyhaven'tcome down and taken us over."
"You almost cheer me, Doctor. Almost, but not quite."
"Actually," Entman said, "I've been wondering about something else."
"What's that?"
"When and how they came here before."
"You mean, where did they get the model for the ten androids?"
"Yes. They had to have not only a model, but also some knowledge concerning our geographical and atmospheric conditions. The two hearts indicate that they knew the elements contained in our air—the pressures and so forth necessary to our existence—and were unable to construct a working model that would function under our conditions with a single heart. So they put in two."
"It looks as though they missed on some other things, too. Seven of the androids have expired."
Entman shrugged. "Still—a remarkable job, particularly since they would have no chance for a trial-and-error test under the conditions that would prevail. It's surprising thatanyof the androids were able to keep functioning."
"The eighth one is pretty sick. He may be gone by now. And about their earlier coming, I can give you one point. They came quietly, probably at night, grabbed their model, and moved out fast."
"How do you know that?"
"Because, obviously, they think all men on earth look alike. Or, at least, we can assume that. Else how did they expect to get away with ten identical androids?"
Entman's eyes widened. "I never thought of that," he muttered.
Senator Crane, a doggedly determined man, had listened to the replay of Brent Taber's top-secret conference again and again. In the comfortable rationalization of which he was capable, his whole zeal and hostility were fashioned around Brent's "arrogant disregard of democratic processes." Who did this bureaucrat think he was? Did he consider himself smarter than the People? Did he feel they couldn't be trusted with revelations affecting their survival? Well, by God, they'd been trusted with word of the bomb and its implications, and they'd reacted admirably. So they were entitled to frankness concerning this new threat to their security.
Of course, Senator Crane reserved the right to enlighten them in his own time and in his own way. After all, hadn't they elected him and thus given him leeway to use his own judgment in their best interests?
But who the hell had elected Brent Taber?
Nobody.
So Crane listened to the recording and picked out what he classified as the key lines.
A routine autopsy revealed some peculiar things ... The man had two hearts....The blood? Could it have been a new kind of plasma?...All in all, gentlemen, eight identical specimens have been picked up in various American cities ...Exactly alike....
A routine autopsy revealed some peculiar things ... The man had two hearts....
The blood? Could it have been a new kind of plasma?...
All in all, gentlemen, eight identical specimens have been picked up in various American cities ...
Exactly alike....
Crane ran through the rest of it and threw himself moodily into a chair. The idiots! The stupid unelected, self-appointed guardians of democracy! Not once—notonce, mind you—had a single one of these great brains referred to the obvious.
It was a Russian plot!
All those allusions to the extraterrestrial was so much bilge. The Russians were infiltrating the country with synthetic men. This meant—oh, God—it meant that in a short time Russia would be able to create an army of these monsters and overwhelm the world.
Senator Crane sprang to his feet and measured his indignation in long strides across the thick, expensivecarpeting on his floor. The traitor! The sheer, compulsive opportunist! That was certainly all that Brent Taber could be called. Using this deadly situation as a means of furthering his own interests.
Senator Crane deliberately stilled his rage and objectively considered what he should do about it. With the obvious source of the androids logically deduced, there was only his own defensive procedures to be considered. And they had to be considered carefully. As he saw himself, he stood alone, against a group of bumbling idiots, with the future of the nation at stake. What to do?
The key question, of course, was: How soon will Russia be able to mount an army? Probably not very soon, he decided. That fact gave him time to ferret out more information; to become completely sure of himself.
One thing you had to realize about the American public—or about any mass of humanity, for that matter—a thing of importance had to be presented dramatically. This, in a sense, was the duty of the elected public servant—to recognize this somewhat childish failing of the average intelligence and make allowances for it.You can do this, of course, Senator Crane told himself,when you love the people.
And, fortunately for their survival, Senator Crane loved the American people.
So, for a few moments, he o'erleaped the hard work ahead and saw the goal—envisioned the headlines:
SENATOR CRANE UNCOVERS DEADLY PERIL TO THE NATIONDue entirely to the patriotic, selfless efforts of one United States Senator, the nation has been warned in time of....SENATOR CRANE STUNS CONGRESS AND THE NATION WITH HIS REVELATIONSStanding alone on the rostrum, a heroic figure pitted, as it were, against all the sinister forces that bore from within, one valiant United States Senator....
Due entirely to the patriotic, selfless efforts of one United States Senator, the nation has been warned in time of....
Standing alone on the rostrum, a heroic figure pitted, as it were, against all the sinister forces that bore from within, one valiant United States Senator....
Crane had dropped back into his chair. His eyes hadclosed, the better to visualize a grateful nation expending their plaudits.
And because he was a man who used a great deal of energy in pursuing an objective, he tired at times. He became drowsy now....
... And went gently to sleep.
"Doctor Corson. Calling Doctor Corson. Please come to the second-floor reception room."
Frank Corson got the call as he was leaving the maternity ward. He took the elevator down and found a rather sloppily dressed, middle-aged man sitting on a lounge beside a weather-beaten camera that tended to mark his profession.
"I'm Les King, a free-lance news photographer. You're Doctor Corson?"
Frank Corson's reaction was slightly hostile. He wondered why. "I'm Doctor Corson."
"I'm on the trail of a patient that came here late last night. Name, William Matson. They tell me he was your patient."
Frank nodded briefly.
"They say he was released."
"That's right."
"A little over an hour ago."
"Right."
"They say he had a broken leg."
"If that's what they said, it must be a matter of record."
"Well, they're wrong on both counts. He came to see me over three hours ago—and both his legs were as good as mine."
Frank Corson did not volunteer the information that he had personally taken William Matson to his furnished room in Greenwich Village and that Matson was there at this very moment, awaiting Frank's return.
"I think there must be some mistake on your part," Frank said.
"No mistake. But something very definitely got crossed up. Maybe we ought to have a little talk—the two of us."
Anger stirred in Frank Corson. Did this Les King character think a beaten-up camera gave him the right to walk in and make demands. "I'm busy now. And I can't see what we'd have to talk about."
"A hell of a lot, maybe. There are some things you may not know about this deal. You might have let a big thing slip through your fingers."
"Look here, I'm not interested in anything you've got to say. And I think you've got a hell of a nerve, coming in here and cross-examining me on something that's—"
King reacted with weary patience. "Take it easy. I'm just trying to get some information that can help both of us, maybe."
"How could it possibly help me?"
"To make it simple, there's a standing ten-thousand-dollar reward for knowledge of the whereabouts of a Judge Sam Baker who disappeared ten years ago from a little upstate New York town. Now, if you aren't interested—"
"Are you telling me that William Matson is Sam Baker?"
"Let's say a hell of a lot indicates it. Matson left here without giving a home address. If you know what it is, we can do business. If you don't—"
"I'm off duty in an hour," Frank Corson said. "Maybe we should talk it over."
"That's better. In the meantime, if you'll tell me where I can find Matson—"
Frank smiled. "Wait an hour. Then I'll show you. But we'll talk about it first."
The tenth android, one of the two so earnestly sought after by Brent Taber, had observed the accident at 59th Street and Park Avenue on the previous night. He'd stood on the curb, lost in the crowd that gathered, and had watched the proceedings carefully. A man who was not a man, a machine that was not a machine, he incorporated, in many respects, the best qualities of both. Now, as the leader of the group deposited from space for a specific purpose, he exhibited these qualities excellently.
He waited. He observed. He added the accident to the several other unforeseen incidents that endangered the project and its objective, and stored them in his memory-bank.
He watched the minor drama as it unfolded, and what was somewhat akin to a danger bell went off in his mind when he saw a bright flash, traced its source to a camera, and carefully studied the man who had taken the picture. Pictures, he knew, could be dangerous. He must get his hands on the picture, if possible.
He waited. He observed. He evaluated. The situation had gotten somewhat out of his control, but he did not blame himself for this. Certain emotions had been made a part of his being, but guilt, a useless one, had been omitted, as had been any ability to react to love, compassion, anger or hatred.
So, with no hope of reward or fear of punishment, he had recorded the facts that he had been unable to communicate telepathically with eight of the units under his command and that, therefore, they were no longer operational. He had no way of knowing what had happened to them. This, however, did not make his work one bit less vital. Even though eight units were unaccounted for, his intelligent handling of the ninth android, and of himself, was still vitally important. It was up to him to see that the project was brought to a successful conclusion.
He watched as the ambulance came, noted the name of the hospital, and recorded the proceedings. But he allowed the ambulance to drive away, keeping his attention pointed at the man who had taken the picture.
When the man moved off down the street, the tenth android followed. When the man entered Central Park, he was observed from a discreet distance. When he came out again, he was followed into Times Square, down into Greenwich Village, back uptown and, finally, to an apartment building in the West Seventies. There he wasobserved opening a mailbox, and the name thereon was duly recorded.
At this point, temporarily entrusting King to destiny, the tenth android took a taxicab to the Park Hill Hospital where he entered, went to the desk, and inquired about a friend of his, a William Matson.
He was directed to Emergency where a nurse, after checking a record sheet on her piled-up desk, told him that Doctor Corson was with the patient in Ward Five. Unaware that he had been extremely lucky, that very few real people—people with only one heart, and a soul to go with it—would have gotten such specific information out of a receiving-desk nurse, the tenth android began counting wards until he came to the one marked Five.
He looked in through the small window in the swinging door and saw his counterpart in bed, a white-coated man bending over him.
That made the ninth android unapproachable, so his counterpart-leader withdrew to the end of the corridor and waited until Doctor Corson came out. He followed Corson outside and, from the back seat of another taxi, never lost sight of the convertible until Rhoda Kane drove it into the garage under her apartment building. From the street, the tenth android saw Rhoda and Frank enter the elevator. As soon as the door closed, he was in the outer lobby, watching as the numbers progressed upward on the elevator dial. The hand stopped at 21. This was noted and recorded, after which the tenth android called a finish to the night's activities and retired to the small room he'd rented on a quiet street on the Lower East Side where, if you bothered no one, no one would bother you.
He was back the next morning, however, and that's when his unavoidable contact with Frank Corson on the sidewalk was made. He noted the surprise on Corson's face, but the logical situation did not develop because Corson did not make an issue of the meeting. He allowed the tenth android to go on his way.
A nonsynthetic man would have wondered at this andthanked his own good luck. Not so with the android. He knew nothing whatever about luck. He accepted this bit of good fortune in exactly the same manner he would have faced its opposite, and when Frank Corson boarded a bus, a taxicab pulled out of a side street and followed.
The cab waited, in front of the Park Hill Hospital. When Frank Corson and the ninth android emerged, two cabs, not one, wheeled down Manhattan and into Greenwich Village.
Thus it was that some ten minutes after Frank Corson went back to his duties at the Park Hill Hospital, there was a knock on the door of his room in Greenwich Village. The ninth android opened the door. The tenth android entered. The ninth android hobbled back to his chair and waited quietly.
The tenth android looked both ways in the corridor and then closed the door. He walked to the chair and stood looking down. He turned his eyes to the bulky, cast-encased leg. "It will not heal," he stated matter-of-factly.
The ninth android nodded. "I—know."
"That makes you useless."
Another nod. "Why couldn't they have made it possible for our flesh and bone to become whole again after an—accident?"
"That wasn't possible."
The tenth android went to a tiny curtained-off kitchenette and returned with a knife. He put his hand on the head of the ninth android and drew it backward so that the neck muscles were taut. He raised the knife.
Then he paused and looked down with a faint expression of interest in his otherwise empty eyes. "Are you afraid to die?"
"I don't—know. What is it to—die?"
"You become nonfunctioning."
"I think I would rather not become nonfunctioning."
The tenth android cut the ninth android's throat. Carefully and cleanly, he severed the big artery that carried the blood-fluid back down to the upper heart.
The blood-fluid spouted out and drained down over the chest of the ninth android. He shuddered. His eyesclosed. When the tenth android released his grip, the head fell forward.
And from somewhere in the synthetically created mind of the tenth android there came a question: Was it undesirable to become nonfunctioning? The human was afraid to die. He sensed this but not the reason for it, if there was one. The human was afraid to die.
He wondered only momentarily, vaguely recorded it as a mistake to wonder about such things, and then crossed the room and put the red-stained knife into the sink.
After that, he let himself quietly out of the apartment and walked off down the street.
He had much to do. He had to leave town and finish the project alone.
Then, quite suddenly, he stopped, stepped into a nearby doorway and stood motionless. There was no change in his expression except that possibly his eyes became a shade emptier.
After a while he left the doorway and moved on. But it was with new purpose and with new plans.
The new orders, relayed across a light-year of space, were not intercepted by any terrestrial receiving device, however sensitive. But they were received and recorded perfectly in the mind of the tenth android.
Frank Corson and Les King sat in a coffee shop and regarded each other with a certain wariness. "It's like this, at least from where I sit," King said. "About ten years ago a small-town judge named Sam Baker—"
"You told me that," Corson cut in impatiently. "Baker was supposed to have been drowned, but they never found the body. Now, you think William Matson is Sam Baker?"
King pondered the question morosely. "I've got every right to think so. But Baker would have aged some in ten years. The man I saw—"
"The man you saw didn't have a broken leg. I must have seen the same one when I—"
King was instantly alert. When you were on the trail of ten grand you had to be alert, and suspicious of comparative strangers.
"You saw someone who looked like Baker and Matson? A guy without a broken leg?"
"I was leaving an apartment building on the Upper East Side this morning. I met him in the street."
"You didn't tell me that."
"I'm telling you now."
King scowled. "I don't get it. You were the doctor. You left a man with a broken leg in bed in a hospital. You saw a man who looked like—"
"I saw the same man, goddamn it!"
"All right—the same man. And you didn't do anything about it? You didn't sayGood morningorIt might rainorWhat the hell are you doing out of bed?You just let him walk away?"
"You're being unreasonable. When you come face to face with something that's impossible, you don't treat it as a fact. It throws you off balance."
King continued to scowl. "We're not getting anywhere. Let's face it. Itwasimpossible. Let's get the hell up to your room and talk to William Matson."
"All right."
Frank Corson came half out of his chair, then he dropped back again. "I don't like this," he said.
"What's to like? What's to dislike? For ten thousand dollars we can ignore both."
"I have a feeling we're getting into something beyond our depth."
"Okay, then let me handle it. I'll see that you get your cut."
"Not so fast," Corson said sharply. "I didn't say I was backing out. I just said this might be bigger than we bargain for."
"I don't think that's quite it," King replied coldly. "I think you don't trust me."
"Maybe that's it. I don't think you trust me, either."
"Ten thousandisa lot of money. But we're not going to get it by sitting in a coffee shop arguing over it."
"I guess you're right."
"Then let's go."
They left the coffee shop and, as they walked the fourblocks that separated them from the room where he was ashamed to take Rhoda Kane, Frank Corson analyzed his own mood and attitude. He decided it wasn't that he mistrusted King, or that he actually thought the deal had any frightening elements in it. In plain truth, he was ashamed of himself. Somehow, in his own mind, he was degrading his profession. His love of Rhoda Kane, his need of money, his impatience with time and circumstance, had forced him into what seemed like a cheap intrigue. There was, somehow, a bad taste to the whole thing.
But it was too late to back out now. And what the hell! If there was ten thousand dollars lying around, why shouldn't he get a piece of it? What was wrong with that? He unlocked the door to his room.
He took a step forward and stopped, blocking the entrance.
"Oh, my God!"
Les King pushed through. His eyes widened, but that was his only reaction. Then his camera swung up into position. The bulb flashed. He lowered the camera.
"Somebody cut the bastard's throat!" he marveled.
Frank Corson moved forward. "Good lord! It looks as though he just sat there and let himself be murdered."
"Suicide maybe?"
"No knife close enough. It's over there in the sink."
"Well, he didn't cut his own throat and then walk back here."
Frank Corson had been studying the wound. He pressed his fingers against the crimson shirt front and rubbed them together, testing the feel of the blood with his thumb.
"What's wrong?" King asked.
"I don't know. That's an odd color for coagulating blood. It doesn't feel right, either."
"Do you think he was sick?"
"There's just something crazy about this whole thing. The man had two hearts."
King was both amazed and angered. "What the hell are you talking about?"
"I didn't get a chance to tell you. This man was a freak. I found it out last night. He had two hearts. I'm sure of it."
"No chance to tell me? Why, goddamn it, we sat in that coffee shop for half an hour while I leveled with you. No chance! You held out on me." King laughed cynically. "I guess that's human nature. With a couple of bucks at stake even honest men go cagey."
Corson ignored the jibe. "Listen, for Christ sake! This is murder! Can't you understand that?"
"Of course, it's murder—in your room, with your knife. You'll have some explaining to do."
King's face hardened. He became subtly remote, impersonal. His eyes turned cold as he began inserting flash-bulbs into his camera and snapping the room and the body from various angles.
Frank Corson, out of his depth for sure now, stood helpless. Les King looked up from his work. "Well, don't just stand there, Doctor. You've got a murder to report. Get with it."
As Corson turned helplessly toward the door, King grinned faintly. "Me, I'm just a free-lance photographer trying to make an honest buck."
Brent Taber stared icily down at Frank Corson and Les King. They looked up at him sullenly, looming over them as he did, from the position of authority. A little like two schoolboys being punished by the principal, they lowered their eyes. Defiantly, each told himself that he was a free citizen and didn't have to take this from Taber, even if he did represent governmental authority.
Still, they sat and took it.
"Of course," Taber said, "you have the universal alibi. You didn't know how serious this thing was. So far as you were concerned, you'd located a man with a reward on his head." He shook his head deprecatingly. "If we hadn't sent out a top-secret bulletin to all the big-city police chiefs to be on the lookout for this guy you'd have had it spread in some tabloid."
"A person has a right to make a buck," King said stubbornly.
"Oh, sure. Again the universal defense. Make the buck first and then think about your patriotic duty."
"Patriotic duty, hell! There wasn't any as far as I was concerned. When I found out about that—What the hell did you call him? The android?—he was already dead."
"And you'll do very well with the pictures you took."
"They're my pictures."
"The hell they are. We're confiscating them and you'll keep your mouth shut about this."
"Then the people haven't got a right to know—"
"Damn the people!" Brent snarled, and wished instantly that he hadn't said it. He didn't mean it, of course. He'd just been pressed too hard. In a sense, he was taking his own frustrations out on these two because they were handy.
And yet, damn it all, he was right! Nobody gave a hoot for the welfare of the country!
"You," he said, turning on Frank Corson. "In the course of your duty as a doctor, you came upon something very strange."
"I wasn't sure!"
"You found a man with two hearts. What should you have done as a doctor? Reported it through recognized channels. If you'd done that, do you realize we might have got word? We might have been able to act? We might have saved that creature's life. That may well have been the difference between life and death for this country. For this planet."
"Are you sure you're not exaggerating things a little?" King asked the question and lit a cigarette as his self-confidence began to return. "Isn't the whole thing pretty far-fetched?"
Brent held his temper. "I suppose you have every right to assume we aren't really sure ourselves. But please listen to me now and give me the benefit of the doubt. We have reason to believe that these creatures—there have been others—are a menace to our survival. We're also pretty sure that there's another one roaming around. It's my opinion that the last one, the tenth one, may have had something to do with what happened in Dr. Corson's room. I don't know whether your lives are in danger ornot, butpleaseco-operate with us. Please report immediately anything of a suspicious nature that you see."
"Of course, we will," Frank Corson said. "I didn't see any signs of hostility in the other one, though."
"Be that as it may, wemustget our hands on him."
"If he did kill the one with the broken leg," King said, "wouldn't he have left town?"
"If he thinks like a murderer, yes. But he probably doesn't. That's the trouble. We don't know how he thinks or what he's here for. We're playing it by ear."
"I think we understand," Frank Corson said.
"Thank you. And I'm sorry if I antagonized you. That wasn't my purpose. I'm just trying to do my job." He smiled and held out his hand. "This is all strictly confidential, of course."
"Of course."
"Thanks for coming."
They left, but Brent Taber's frustrations remained with him. Earlier that day, in Washington, he'd stood on the carpet himself, before higher authority, and played the part of the reprimanded schoolboy.
"It would appear," Authority said, "that you went out of your way to antagonize Senator Crane."
"I'm sorry if that's the opinion up above."
"It is not a matter of opinion, one way or another. It's a matter of expediency. The Administration has to get along with Congress. Senator Crane is in a powerful position. He is on three committees that can hamper legislation the Administration is vitally interested in."
"I understand. And I didn't pick the quarrel with Senator Crane. He picked it with me. In my judgment, he is not the kind of person to be trusted with information of this vital nature."
"You consider Senator Crane an unreliable demagogue?"
"I didn't say that."
Authority smiled wryly. "I'll concede that the Senator's type is rare in American politics—at least among those who get elected to high office. But the fact remains—he is a power."
"If you agree that the information should have been withheld—"
"I didn't agree on that at all," Authority said quickly. "And don't quote me as having said so. I'll deny it."
Brent Taber smiled also, but inwardly, where it wouldn't show. He should have expected that denial. After all, Authority had Higher Authority to account to. Authority could also be put on the carpet. There was always Someone higher up.
"I'm sorry," Brent Taber said. "I was put in charge of this project and I used my judgment—"
"We are not questioning your over-all judgment," Authority assured him.
Then what in the hell are you gabbling about?This question was also asked inwardly as Brent said, "I felt the gravity of the situation merited extreme care."
"It does. But life must go on. The government must still function."
That's right, play it from both ends, Brent Taber thought bitterly.Ride the fence. Stay in a position to jump either way.
"What do you wish me to do about Senator Crane?"
"I'd stay out of his way if I were you."
"Whatever damage you say I have done can be corrected with a ten-minute briefing."
"That's up to you," Authority answered nimbly. "As you say, you've been put in charge of the project."
"Then I'll leave things as they are."
"Very well. I just wanted to go on record."
"Thank you," Brent Taber said. "Thank you very much."
Frank Corson and Les King walked north together after their interview with Brent Taber.
"I guess we got off lucky," King said. "Those Washington appointees can be tough."
"He seems to have a pretty tough job."
"They all think they've got tough jobs."
"It's still a murder as far as the New York police are concerned. What do you think will happen?"
"They turned us over to Taber, didn't they?" King asked. "That shows how they're playing it. The New York cops have enough murders to worry about. They like to pass them on to somebody else."
"Then they won't question us any further?"
King shrugged. "Who knows? You've got nothing to worry about, though. Just sit tight. In fact, you're damned lucky."
"How so?"
"This killing is under wraps. Nobody's talking. That means you won't get in trouble at the hospital." King grinned. "Yourethicswon't come under scrutiny."
Frank Corson flushed and said nothing. King, after a moment's silence, said, "I've been thinking about that tenth android."
"Do you think there's as much danger in this thing as Taber says?"
King shrugged. "Those guys always think that way. Remember what they said about the atom bomb? The world was doomed. We were going to blow each other up. But nobody's been heaving them around. The view-with-alarm boys always talk that way."
"I hope you're right."
"But about that android that's supposed to be walking around loose."
"What about him?"
"Those bastards confiscated all my stuff. The shots I made in your room—everything. But if I could get some shots of the other one—"
"You're actually going to work on your own? In spite of what Taber said?"
"It's a free country," King retorted hotly. "I've got a right to follow my profession. What I was going to say was that you're in a position to help yourself a little, too."
"I am?"
"Only you and I know what we're looking for. If you spot the android, see him hanging around anywhere, and let me know, I'll—"
"You can go to hell, King. I want no part of any more of your ideas. I've had it. If I see the creature I'll callTaber and nobody else. I'm going to do exactly what he told me to do. Mark me off your list."
Frank Corson strode away. Les King stood watching him. King shrugged. Just another bewildered citizen who thought God lived in Washington. Afraid to spit if some Washington bureaucrat wagged a finger.
Well, the hell with Corson. The hell with Taber. The hell with all of them. If Les King stood to make an honest buck, he was going to do his damnedest until somebody passed a law making it illegal.
Brent Taber was drawn to Doctor Entman. He found, in the ugly little scientist, a rapport that seemed to exist nowhere else. At the moment, Entman was having a fine, stimulating time dissecting the cadaver of the android. His ugly little eyes were bright. "It's a miracle, my friend! A positive miracle. The thing these people have been able to do!"
"People? You've used that word before."
Entman waved an impatient hand. "Oh, don't quibble! Why, the creation of an artificial digestive system alone is awesome—not to mention the creation of a synthetic brain."
"The brain is what interests me."
"I can hardly wait to get into that area. Certain aspects are obvious, though. These creatures must have mental powers far beyond ours—in certain areas, that is."
"Tell me more."
"That's merely a matter of logic. We know thathomo sapiens—because of his free choice, so to speak—uses, on an average, not more than a tenth of his mental ability. All right. These people have created, to all intents and purposes, a man. They surely had sense enough to remove the free-choice element. The creature surely has judgment, even cunning, but it is no doubt pointed totally and completely toward the objective of its being."
"Whatever the hell that objective is!"
Entman was mildly surprised by Taber's exclamation. He held up a warning finger. "Nerves, boy, nerves. You must watch that. As to the objective—I'm sure it's something pointed at our destruction."
"What powers were you referring to?"
"Hypnotism, I should think. Any of the mental processes through which one human being strives to assert control over another. We are aware of several of these. They may have found others."
"You won't be able to define them by cutting up that brain?"
"I doubt it. We could know them only by watching one of the creatures in action." Entman sighed. "If we only had other facts."
"What facts?"
Entman's smile was almost patronizing. "You're tired, aren't you, son? You're not thinking very well."
"Goddamn it! Quit treating me like a cretin!"
"Temper, temper! Look at it analytically, son, analytically. Suppose we knew who these people are. What distances have they covered in arriving here? What is their method of conveyance?"
"The distance? Light years, I would assume. The conveyance? A spaceship, or a projectile along basic lines but farther advanced."
"All right. We know they've sent ten creatures to our planet from infinity—that's as good a word to use as any. The next question is, why?"
"Damnit, that question is obvious."
"And from my point of view, the answer is obvious."
"Then I wish to hell you'd give it to me."
"Logic, man, logic! A race as far advanced as this one could certainly move in and occupy us without trouble. Wouldn't you think?"
"Certainly. That's what bothers me. Why all the pussy-footing around with synthetic men who keep dropping dead?"
"I think it's because they themselves are unable to exist in the climatic and atmospheric conditions existent on our planet."
Brent Taber's eyes opened as Entman went on. "Theyplan to occupy us, certainly—this we must assume—so they're trying to create an entity through which they can do it. The process is really no different, even though a little more dramatic, than our science creating a mechanical unit that functions to the best efficiency under specified conditions."
Taber's finger snapped up. He pointed at Entman's desk. "They'd like to know why their androids died. Maybe they weren't alike—at least, not exactly alike. Maybe there were differences you haven't found yet—maybe they turned out ten models and they want to know which one worked the best."
"You get the point," Entman beamed.
"They'd like the data you're assembling—those reports you've got in front of you."
"I imagine they'd find them quite interesting."
"Do you think we can assume the tenth android died also?"
"Perhaps. We have no proof that it killed the one found slain in Greenwich Village."
"I'm satisfied to assume that. But I'm wondering just what contact those 'people,' as you call them, had with their androids. Could a part of the brain have been a sending and receiving device?"
"It would be difficult to tell. I delved in far enough to find a mechanical device, if there had been one. It did not exist in those I dissected. There is another possibility though, except that we often make the mistake of assuming that what we humans on earth can't do, can't be done. Consider telepathy. Who's to say they were not made capable of communicating in that way—at whatever distance?" He paused for a moment, deep in thought, before going on. "Has it occurred to you that the tenth android might be a supervisor, the boss, the captain? If he is still alive, why haven't you found him? You have the men and facilities at your command."
Brent Taber sprang to his feet. "Doctor," he answered, scowling, "Did you ever hear of a project so secret that it couldn't even be given enough personnel to make it work?"
Entman smiled sympathetically. "Washington is astrange place in some ways, son. Usually it's the other way around. You get so much help they get in each other's way. I'm glad I'm not involved in those phases of it."
Brent paced the floor, occupied with his own thoughts. It was more than mere frustration. It went deeper. There was his resentment of the dressing-down he'd taken from Authority; the subtle coolness that had begun to permeate his relations with those upstairs.
He jerked his mind away from such thoughts. Nerves. That was it. He was tense. He was imagining things. They were certainly too well aware of the gravity of this situation to let petty politics interfere.
Or were they?
"Okay, Doc," Brent said crisply. "Thanks for letting me pick your brain."
"Good luck, son."
Entman went back to his work and Taber left. As he walked down the corridor, he analyzed the cheerful tone of Entman's voice and told himself that even Entman didn't really believe it. Entman had the evidence before his eyes but he still couldn't get the concept of alien creatures from space really taking us over. It was too unbelievable.
Am I the only one who really believes it?He asked himself this question as he hailed a cab in the street and watched a fat man in a bowler hat slip in and take it away from him.
"You're slipping, Taber," he muttered. "You're definitely slipping."
The bell rang. Rhoda Kane opened the door. The man standing there was not extraordinary in any way. He appeared just short of middle age. He wore a blue suit and a blue necktie. The word for him wasquiet. He was a man who did not stand out.
"My name is John Dennis," he said. "I would like to speak to you."
The abrupt demand annoyed Rhoda. She frowned and was about to retort just as peremptorily, but an odd bemusement tempered her mood. The man was uncivilenough to be interesting. She said, "I'm busy now," but instead of closing the door, she stepped back into the room. The man came in and it was he who closed the door.
"I don't wish to alarm you, Miss Kane."
"I'm not in the least alarmed."
As she spoke, Rhoda wondered if this was true. But the wondering itself was on such an impersonal basis that it didn't seem to make much difference.
Also, she was noticing that John Dennis was not quite as he'd first appeared. He was much younger than middle-aged, really—somewhere in his thirties. He was quiet, yes, but handsome, too. There was a rugged individuality about him that was easily missed at first glance. A definite attractiveness.
"I want to ask you about a friend of yours. Frank Corson."
This seemed like a logical request. It definitely seemed that way but, at the same time, Rhoda was confused as to why it should appear to be. A man came and knocked on the door and entered and asked a question like that. Itshouldn'thave been all right, but it was. He probably had the right, she told herself, else he would not have asked.
"What do you wish to know?"
"Tell me about him."
"He is a doctor. Frank is an intern at Park Hill Hospital. After he finishes there he will go into practice. I guess that's about all there is to it."
"He had a patient named William Matson."
"William Matson? I don't know. He doesn't discuss his work with me."
"This was a patient with a broken leg who was taken to the hospital night before last."
"He did mention one man. I don't know his name, though. A man Frank said had two hearts."
"What else did he tell you about this man?"
"Nothing else. Frank had the case in Emergency. We came home—came here—and then Frank was bothered. He went back and examined the man and came out and said he had two hearts."
"That was all he said?"
"Nothing else."
John Dennis looked around. Then, when Rhoda stirred and passed a hand quickly through her hair, he brought his eyes back to bear on hers. Rhoda lowered her hand.
"Does Frank Corson live here?"
"No. This is my home. Frank lives in the Village."
"What Village?"
"Greenwich Village. It's a part of New York. Are you a stranger?"
John Dennis did not answer. "Why doesn't he live here with you?"
"Why—why, we're not married. We are only engaged."
"That means you will get married later?"
"I hope to."
"Does he hope to?"
"Yes—I'm sure he does."
"Then he will live here with you?"
"I don't know. We may find another place."
"What's wrong with this one?"
"Why, nothing—nothing at all—"
Such strange questions, Rhoda thought. Why was he asking them? No doubt he had a reason. It somehow did not occur to her to wonder why she was answering. Her own thoughts on the matter did not seem important.
"He lives here with you sometimes, doesn't he?"
"He stays over once in a while."
"Why doesn't he stay over all the time?"
"Because we're not married."
"What do you do when he stays over?"
"We—talk."
"Is that all?"
"We make love."
"How do you do that?"
Rhoda hesitated for the first time. "We—haven't you ever made love?"
His words came a little sharper. "How do you make love?"
"We lie in each other's arms. We show affection for each other."
"You lie in the same bed together?"
"Yes. Of course."
"If you were married, what would you do?"
"I said—we would live together."
"Would you make love?"
"Yes."
"Would you lie in the same bed together?"
"Yes."
"Is there anything you would do if you were married that you don't do now?"
"Of course. We would live together. We would be man and wife. It would be—well, legal."
"It is not legal to make love and lie in the same bed together now?"
"No—well, yes—you see—"
He was joking, of course. Rhoda was sure of this. She wanted to explain it all to him but he suddenly lost interest.
"Frank Corson knew nothing else about William Matson?"
"The man with two hearts?"
"Only that?"
"It was all he told me."
"I think he knows more. I want you to ask him. Then I will come and ask you."
"I'll ask him if he knows anything more than what he told me."
"Ask him if he knows of any other men with two hearts. I want to know where they are and what happened to them."
"I'll try to find out."
"Youmustfind out."
"Will you come back soon?"
"I will come back. You must do as I tell you."
"I will do as you tell me."
John Dennis had been sitting by the window so that Rhoda had to stare into the light. He got up and approached her. She stood up and waited for him, motionless. He came close and looked at her curiously. His eyes went up and down her body. He laid a hand on her left breast and pressed gently. She did not move.
"I will come back. You will not tell anyone I have been here or that we talked." He left without saying good-bye.
After he was gone, Rhoda stood where she was, motionless, for several minutes. Her mind was on the place he had touched her. She had never before experienced such a reaction. Never before had a man's hand, even on her bare flesh, produced such thrill and excitement. Desperately, her common sense struggled with this new thing. She dismissed with annoyance the callow, schoolgirl thought that this was the way love finally came—in the door, unannounced, to take over a woman's heart and soul and body. Ridiculous.
The intellectual Rhoda agreed, but the emotional Rhoda continued to toy with the idea, finding it a fascination, a joy. But there was something more than the intellectual and the emotional; a deeper, frightening numbness; a strange paralysis of mind she could not come to grips with; it kept eluding her even as she reached out for it.
Fear? She wondered.
But mainly she thought of John Dennis, the strange man who had walked in her door and to whom she had surrendered without a struggle.
My God. What happened to me? What happened to Rhoda Kane?
Abruptly she dropped the thought—it did not seem important.
Senator Crane sat in the dining room of the Mayflower Hotel. His guest was Matthew Porter, a mystery man, also, of the Brent Taber type, but a little more clearly defined in that he had a title and a department of government. But far more important to Crane, he outranked Taber.
One other point of importance: Matthew Porter was, in the terms even Senator Crane used, "something of a fathead."
"Maybe I am a Senator," Crane said jovially, "and maybe we boys up there think we have a hand in directing you fellows—still I'm flattered that you could find time to lunch with me."
Porter had a thin, aristocratic face, delicate features. His expression was usually benign, but there was steel behind it. He could scowl and hurl righteous invective, for instance, when a policeman questioned his right to park by a fireplug in spite of his official license plates.
But mainly he was a shy person who nursed his inferiority complex in secret.
"That's very flattering, Senator. But the truth is quite the opposite. It's we fellows who are honored to put ourselves at your beck and call. After all, you're the ones the people elect to office."
The flattery boomeranged nicely and put Porter one up on Crane.
"The people must be served, of course," Crane said, "and that's one of the things I want to talk to you about. The people's interests."
Matthew Porter cocked an alarmed eye as he bit into a roll. "Have their interests been violated?"
Crane glanced around and lowered his voice. "There's been too much loose talk going around about that project you've got Brent Taber on."
Porter laid the roll down very carefully, as though he feared it might go off. "I'm not sure I know what you're referring to, Senator."
"Your reticence is quite understandable. That I bring it up at all must shock you, but—" Crane hesitated, a touch of sadness brushing across his face.
"But what, Senator?"
"You understand, certainly, that I hold the greatest respect for Brent Taber. That's why I hesitated to come to you."
"It seems to me Halliday said something about calling Taber in. It had to do with a mild reprimand over Taber's attitude on legislative-executive relations."
"Halliday?" Senator Crane asked innocently. "He's another of the really good men you picked for government service."
"I trust Halliday implicitly, but he's carrying a bigload so I'm glad you came directly to me, Senator. Exactly what is the trouble?"
"In plain words, there have been some bad leaks out of Taber's office. There is in existence a taped recording of a meeting."
Porter was aghast. He tried to hide it, which made his greenish expression all the more ludicrous—as though he'd swallowed a worm out of his salad.
"Impossible."
"You'd think so, with all the top-secret precautions that have been taken."
"How did you discover this?"
Crane held up a restraining hand. "I'd be happy to tell you if it would serve any purpose, but believe me, it wouldn't. I would only tend to eliminate a contact who is extremely loyal to me and—I might add—to good government."
"I understand. But I certainly can't imagine what has happened to Taber. I would have backed him with my last dime."
"I actually don't think it was Taber's fault. A man can't personally see to every detail in his department."
"That's the responsibility of whoever is in charge."
Crane sighed. "Yes, I guess that's a cold, hard fact of life in this time of danger. But don't be too hard on him. Perhaps there's an explanation."
"He'll have his chance to explain," Porter said grimly.
"I'm sure you understand how it pains me to have to—well, put this black mark on the record of a good man. I debated many hours and searched my soul before I came to you. With a man's career at stake—"
"Men are expendable," Porter snapped. "The nation's safety is not."
Again Crane glanced around. "Are the Russiansreallythat far ahead?"
Porter's eyes narrowed just a shade. "The Russians? Did you listen to the tape you mentioned?"
"Only sketchily. I assumed—"
"The danger is far greater. A Senatorial committee was briefed on the thing. I honestly think you should havebeen on that committee, Senator. By coming to me you've done far more toward protecting the nation's safety—and that of the world—than have any of your colleagues."
"Let's just say I had more opportunity."
"Your modesty is becoming."
"And now," Crane said wryly, "now that I've done all I can, I wish I could forget the whole thing. But with the gravity of the situation—"
"I'll see that you get a complete briefing."
"Thank you. And I promise I'll be most discreet."
A little while later, on the way back to his office, Crane smiled. Now maybe that self-important little son-of-a-bitch, Taber, would find out what it meant to insult a United States Senator.
From there, his mind went to another insult. So they'd passed him up in forming the committee to hear about the damned androids, had they? Well, by God, he'd show them the people of his state wouldn't tolerate that, either.
The people back home were going to hear about their Senator.
It probably wouldn't even be necessary to campaign next year.