"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 eyes closed. 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 say _Good morning_ or _It might rain_ or _What 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. It
_was_ impossible. 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 thousand _is_ a 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 four blocks 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 or not, but _please_ co-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, we _must_ get 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. "Your _ethics_ won'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 call Taber 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.
6
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 that _homo 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. "They plan 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 a strange 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 was _quiet_. 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 uncivil enough 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. It _shouldn't_ have 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?"