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 had closed, 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.
5
"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 was observed 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 and thanked 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.