"Brent Taber told me to keep my mouth shut."
"I suppose if Brent Taber had said, 'I don't want you to see that woman
again,' you wouldn't even have dropped around to say good-bye."
"Rhoda--you're being unreasonable."
"Unreasonable to expect the man who says he loves me to confide in me?"
"All right. I was wrong. What happened is this: When William Matson was
ready to leave Park Hill, he had no place to go, so I took him down to
my room. I went back to the hospital and Les King contacted me. He said
William Matson was really a man named Sam Baker who'd disappeared from
his home in upstate New York ten years ago. We went down to see him and
found him sitting in a chair with his throat cut."
"You've been involved in a murder and you didn't say a single, solitary
word--"
"Rhoda! I said I was sorry."
"I didn't see anything about it in the papers. I'm sure it wasn't on any
of the newscasts."
"Of course, it wasn't. The police didn't even question me. I called the
police and they came--two prowl-car men. Then they told Les and me to
wait. We waited, and after a while this Brent Taber came in. He told us
to go home and keep our mouths shut. Later, we were called downtown and
Taber talked to us."
"He told you to go home," Rhoda said sarcastically. "You also said the
man was killed in your room. Just where is your home, Mr. Corson?"
"I came here, Rhoda. I spent that night here."
"With a possible murder charge hanging over your head, you came here and
didn't say a word!"
Frank sprang up from the couch and turned, scowling. "Goddamn it! Don't
you believe me? Do you think I'm lying?"
"I don't know what to believe. I just feel--betrayed. But something else
is more important."
"What?"
"You acted like a child. Just because some man appeared out of nowhere,
you said _Yes, sir_ and _No, sir_ and _Sorry, sir_ and walked away.
Frank! I'm ashamed of you!"
In quick anger, his hand came back as though to slap her. But he dropped
it to his side and strode across the room and picked up his jacket.
"And so now you're walking out again. You just can't face up to
anything, can you, Doctor Corson."
He turned on her, his eyes blazing. "All right. Maybe everything you say
is true. Maybe I've seesawed and acted like a kid. If I have, it's
because of you. The thing in the Village had nothing to do with me
changing my mind about going into research. I did it because I thought
you wanted me to."
Now Rhoda was on her feet, too, her patrician nostrils flaring. "Well,
don't do me any favors."
"From now on, I wouldn't dream of it."
As he pulled on his jacket, Rhoda sat down on the sofa and lit a
cigarette. "I'm convinced that if you'd gone along with Les King you
would have been on the right road. King wasn't frightened off by a man
who said he represented the government. He saw a chance to make some
money and is probably going ahead with it right now."
"I don't give a damn what Les King is doing!"
"Of course not. But there's another little thing you overlooked. Don't
you suppose this Brent Taber will toss that murder right back into your
lap if it suits his purpose? The body was in your room. You're probably
the chief suspect. So you sit back and let Brent Taber play whatever
game he's got in mind. And if it goes wrong, Frank Corson gets picked up
for murder."
"It can't possibly happen that way."
"Why not? Who is Brent Taber, really?"
"I told you--a government man."
"What government? Where can you get in touch with him?"
"I don't know. He gave me a phone number in case I ever saw a certain
man again."
"What man?"
"Rhoda! They aren't men at all. They're androids!"
Rhoda froze and stared at him in consternation. "You actually _believe_
that fairy tale? Frank, I just don't understand you."
"I told you about it before."
"But for the life of me I didn't think you took it seriously."
"I just didn't care. I'd had it. I wanted out."
"But you're involved in it, up to your neck, and if you had any guts
you'd face Taber and make him tell you _all_ the facts--and what's
behind them."
"I have no intention of calling him."
"I guess that's the rock we split on then," Rhoda said coldly. She
couldn't understand herself, even while she knew, deep down, that she
wanted more information for _him_--John Dennis. Any other reason or
excuse she used was a sham, a self-delusion.
If she expected a protest, she didn't get it. Rhoda took a long, calm
drag on her cigarette. She ground it into the ash tray. She raised her
eyes and looked levelly at Frank.
"Very well," he said, finally, "It was nice knowing you."
"Shut the door quietly on the way out," she retorted.
He stared at her, his face revealing nothing. He turned, went to the
door, and opened it. He looked back. She had not moved. He left without
a word.
Rhoda Kane lit another cigarette. She stared out across the East River
at the expensive view that went with her high-rent apartment. She got up
and went to the liquor cabinet and made herself a drink.
She was back on the sofa when a key turned in the lock. The door opened.
Frank Corson came in, walked to her and stood looking down at her. There
was misery in his face, a beaten look in his eyes.
"You knew I couldn't do it."
"Couldn't do what, sweet?"
"Walk out on you. I'm in love with you, goddamn it. If I stayed away
tonight, I'd be back tomorrow."
Rhoda set her glass down and held out her arms. "Darling," she
whispered. "You wouldn't have had to. I'd have been down in the Village
after you."
He kissed her hungrily and she pressed her hand against the back of his
head, holding his mouth tight to hers. His hand slipped inside her
blouse. She laid her own hand on it and held it firm.
"It's for your own good, darling, that I want you to contact this Taber
and demand what you're entitled to. You have a right to know. If you
don't find out, there might be a policeman at your door, any minute of
the day or night."
"I'll call him."
"And if he tells you it's none of your business, stand up to him."
"I will."
She allowed his hand to go on with its exploring now. His finger touched
her nipple, played with it. She closed her eyes as his mouth again
sought hers. "Darling ..." she murmured.
But she was speaking to a man who had come from nowhere and had
identified himself only as John Dennis. She had no number at which to
call him. She could only wait until he returned again, if he ever did.
She thought: _Oh, God, John Dennis. Why do you turn away from me? Why
did you strip me naked and look at me as though I were a statue? Will
you come back again? Please come back and make love to me._
She felt Frank Corson unsnapping her brassiere. She closed her eyes and
lay back and waited, and for all the effect he had on her, Frank Corson
could have been a statue.
At the last moment she insisted, "Remember, Frank, you've got to find
out _everything_!"
9
The man had sallow skin; the look of a consumptive. He sat in a chair
beside Crane's desk and dropped the ash from his cigar on Crane's
wall-to-wall carpeting. Crane scowled, but let it pass.
"All right. Dorfman, what have you got to show for the money I've paid
you?"
Dorfman, an old hand at confidential snooping, refused to quail before
the much-publicized senatorial scowl. "It's tough putting on a hunt when
you're not quite sure what you're after."
"I told you what I wanted. I wanted you to watch for any New York
contacts Brent Taber might be using at the present time. That's simple
enough, isn't it?"
"Taber contacts a lot of people. And he's a dangerous man to tail. He
knows all the tricks."
"Are you telling me he caught you following him? If he did, you're no
longer of any value to me."
"He didn't spot me," Dorfman said. "I followed him to New York and kept
tabs on a Manhattan office, one he uses as his headquarters there."
"A directory check would tell me that."
"Take it easy. I staked out the place all day yesterday. Five men
entered and left. Four were his own men."
Crane made a notation on a pad. He knew about those men. They'd been
pulled off Taber's staff without notice. No doubt they'd made their last
report to Taber and had headed back to Washington for reassignment.
Dorfman would not know this, of course.
Or so Crane thought. Dorfman smiled as though he'd read Crane's mind and
said, "I think Taber's losing his staff. They were government men--four
of them--reporting in or out. My guess was _out_." He peered keenly at
Crane for a moment. "Who's slicing away at Taber behind his back?"
"That's none of your--look here, Dorfman, I can get a better man than
you at half the price!"
"No, you can't," Dorfman said easily. "Like I told you, there were five.
The other one turned out to be a Doctor Frank Corson, an intern at Park
Hill Hospital in Manhattan."
Crane made another quick notation. A Manhattan doctor. One of the
androids had been found in the East River with its throat slit and a
broken leg. Now a doctor had contacted Taber. Was there a connection?
Somehow, Crane had to get on the track of the tenth android Taber was
hunting. Cutting the ground out from under Taber had been a satisfying
victory but it wasn't enough. To be of service to his electorate,
Senator Crane realized, he had to have something tangible in the way of
evidence. The only way to get this was to ferret out Taber's contacts
and locate the tenth android himself, or at least be there when Taber
located the creature.
A man of supreme confidence in his destiny, Crane had been working on
the speech he would make when he was ready for the _I accuse_ scene from
the Senate floor. He had even gone so far as to alert a fashionable
Washington hotel to be ready with a suite at a moment's notice. Crane
felt his office would be far too small to handle the traffic that would
result from his revelation.
It did not occur to Crane to compliment Dorfman on his skill as an
operative, for getting the book so completely and swiftly on a casual
visitor to Taber's office. He said, "You've got this doctor's address?"
Dorfman put a folded slip of paper on the desk. "Another little item
I'll throw in as a bonus. Taber had another tail--here in Washington."
This disturbed Crane. Did he have competition in the matter of the
android? Was someone else trying to get into the act?
"A New York free-lance photographer named King. I didn't have to check
on him. I recognized him. He's been around Manhattan for years."
"A photographer. What do you suppose he's up to?"
"No way of telling, at the moment. Want me to switch to him?"
"No. Stay on Taber. There's more chance there."
Dorfman got up from his chair, stepping on the ashes as he did so and
ground them into the rug. "Okay, I'll report tomorrow."
After Dorfman left, Crane pondered the situation. Were the Russians
behind this? Somehow, he was beginning to doubt it. And this dismayed
him somewhat. He was enough of a realist to know that even a possible
invasion from outer space--if that talk hadn't been a cover-up--would
not carry the power of a Russian plot.
A space invasion? Too science-fictional. It had been done by H. G. Wells
and God knew how many other writers. Break a yarn like that and nobody
would believe it. Still, if he could get his hands on the evidence.
He scowled as he contemplated the one stone wall he hadn't been able to
penetrate. No connection he had, no contact, would reveal the secret
laboratory where the dissection of the androids had taken place, or the
specialist who'd done the job. Porter might give it to him in exchange
for a guarantee of the hydroelectric post. But Crane suspected that even
Porter did not have this information. The higher you went in these
top-secret projects, the more silence and stubbornness you found. The
men up above, it seemed, were never as open to discussion as were the
lower-echelon eager beavers. They indulged in horse-trading and played
politics to a certain extent, but the lines of demarcation were sharper.
That was why he could get Taber discredited, even crippled. But knocking
a man of his proven ability completely out was another matter. The men
on the top floor measured a lot of evidence before they acted.
But the body of one of the androids--there should be a way--there had to
be a way.
Suddenly Crane smiled. Then he chuckled. Then he took an address book
out of his desk drawer and thumbed through the pages.
* * * * *
Frank Corson stared dejectedly at the carpet in Rhoda Kane's apartment.
"I tried," he said. "I tried damned hard. But it just didn't do any
good."
Rhoda sat beautifully poised, a picture of sophisticated perfection. She
wore an obviously expensive costume featured by lounging slacks that
could have been molded to her body. The afternoon sun glinted on a
hairdo right out of _Vogue_ or _Harper's Bazaar_. Her expression was
distant; a look of impersonal pity showed on her face as she regarded
Frank.
"Tell me about it, sweetie."
Frank cringed inwardly at the appellation. In Manhattan, everyone called
everyone else _sweetie_.
"There wasn't much to it. I called Taber and then went down to see him.
I told him exactly how I felt about things and demanded more
information."
Rhoda frowned. "You _demanded_? Frank! I'm disappointed in you. The
indignant citizen bit, I suppose. Don't you know how to talk to people?
Your bedside manner must be tremendous."
"Rhoda! For God's sake!"
She brushed his anger away with a graceful, deprecating wave of her
hand. "What did you say to him?"
"I was just telling you. I said that with a man killed in my room I had
a right to some protection. I--"
"Protection! What did you do? Ask the man to hide you? Why didn't you
get down on your knees and beg his pardon for living?"
Frustrated anger made Corson's lips tremble. "I did the best I could! I
told him that if I couldn't find out from him what was going on, I'd go
to the New York police. I told him I had a right to know about these
androids."
"And he told you the only right you had was to drop dead, I suppose."
Frank Corson got to his feet. His face was stiff. His eyes were
tortured. He ran a helpless hand along his jaw.
"All right, Rhoda. All right. If this is the way you want it, there's
nothing I can do."
"What do you mean--the way I want it? All I've been trying to do is put
a little courage into you? Didn't Taber tell you a thing about the
androids?"
"He wasn't as brutal as I made it sound. In fact, he's a rather nice guy
in a tough spot."
"I'm sure of that, but we couldn't care less. What did he say about the
androids?"
A new, desperate wariness had been born in Frank Corson. He could take
only so much and now he regarded Rhoda with a hostility of his own. "A
short time ago you hooted the android idea. What changed you?"
"I use it as a term of identification! Good heavens! You act like a
child. All I'm trying to do is get a little information--"
"For whom, Rhoda?"
He threw the question so suddenly it put Rhoda off balance. Quick fear
flashed into her eyes. Then it vanished behind a wall of defiance.
"Are you out of your mind? Why would I have any interest in this mess
except by way of protecting your interests?"
"_My_ interests. I can remember not long ago when you'd have called them
_our_ interests."
"There you go again. Talking like a child!"
Frank crossed the room and stood close to Rhoda's chair. He looked down
at her, and when he spoke there was a change in his manner. Now there
was a finality in his tone that had ice in it.
"I don't know what this is all about, Rhoda, but I'm not as much of a
child as you seem to think. Subjectiveness does make a person sound and
act that way at times. This is a reflection of inner confusion and
bewilderment. I'll admit I'm confused and bewildered. But I'm getting
your message, too. I think you're telling me that whatever has happened
to you is none of my business. Very well. You know where to find me if
you need me."
He was walking toward the door, his back turned, so he did not see the
mute appeal in Rhoda's face. "Frank--!"
He had opened the door and turned. "I'm sorry, Rhoda. I thought we had
something. I'll admit I didn't handle it very well but I did my best."
He went out and closed the door softly behind him and was gone.
Pure tragedy ripped across Rhoda's eyes as she sprang to her feet, took
several steps toward the door, and stopped. A wordless cry rose within
her and came out as a miserable little kitten whimper.
But then she stiffened. The moment of panic passed. She straightened and
touched a displaced lock of hair. The warmth of the new excitement she
lived with gushed anew, and the bright, nervous smile touched her lips.
She went over, made herself a drink and went to the window. She looked
down. He was out there somewhere, going about his mysterious business.
The smile she thought of as soft and tender was really brittle and quite
hard. She downed her drink thirstily as though it helped quench the
fever in her throat.
She put the glass down and heard a whisper: "John, John, why don't you
come to me? I'll help you. I'll understand. I'll teach you to make love.
Let me help you, darling."
The whisper was her own and it ended in a sob.
* * * * *
Brent Taber was studying some reports on his desk. They were not sources
of satisfaction in any sense. Most of them were memos noting changes in
the departmental assignments of staff men: _Due to unforeseen
emergencies and the reassessment of current workloads it has become
necessary to transfer from your subdepartment three ... two ... four
..._
And so it went.
He sat back and closed his eyes. He was tired and he conceded it, which
was a stark admission for Brent Taber. And he wondered: Was it worth it?
Banging your head against a stone wall. It would be so easy to say,
_Okay, it's your world, too. If you aren't worried why should I bother?_
Maybe it's not worth it. Why not assume that if there is a superior race
standing off somewhere in space, they're only a bunch of paper tigers
and to hell with it. Or maybe they wish us only the best. Maybe--
The door opened. Marcia Holly pushed her head in. "Have you eaten
anything today?"
"Get lost, sweetheart," Brent said absently.
"Maybe you look on eating as a bad habit, like sleeping, but it would be
nice to avoid a breakdown and stay out of the hospital, too."
"You're such a pleasant person to have around, except when you get up
off your chair and start making noises like a woman."
"Just to accommodate you, I'll change my sex. But right now, there's a
man to see you."
"Tell him to go to hell but don't offend him."
"I think you ought to see him. He's got an official paper of some kind.
You didn't steal a car or anything, did you?"
"I parked in the middle of an intersection, but I didn't think they'd
mind." Brent Taber sighed. "All right. Send him in."
The man was small, ingrown and, as Brent Taber learned, somewhat
stubborn.
"My name is Charles Blackwell," he said. "My brother has been lost for
over two months now."
"I'm sorry," Brent said politely.
"My brother was a source of concern to us--"
"Who is _us_?"
"Why, the family. Who else? We all worried about Charlie. He had fits of
depression. Kind of a maniac-depressive."
"_Manic_-depressive," Taber corrected gently.
"Yeah, that kind, ah--kind of. Well anyhow, he hides from us sometimes
and we worry."
"Who sent you to me?"
Charles Blackwell waved a vague hand, "Oh, they told me you were the man
to see."
"Tell me their names," Brent said politely. "I'd like to thank them
personally."
"Oh that won't be necessary--not necessary at all. You see the thing is,
my brother Jack has accidents sometimes and so we figured he might have
broken a leg or something, maybe, and it seems you--well, you kind of
turned out to be the man to see about it." Charles Blackwell waved the
paper. "With this."
_Good lord_, Taber groaned inwardly. _This thing is turning into a comic
opera--plain slapstick._
"And why am I the man to see?"
"Because they said you knew about a man with a broken leg who got killed
or something."
"They said that?"
"Uh-huh, and if you'd just let me see the man, I could tell in a jiffy
whether he's Jack or not."
It had been a pretty long speech and Charles Blackwell seemed happy to
get it off his chest. He felt he'd earned a cigarette so he lit one.
Brent Taber watched the match go out and then said, "You're the
Goddamnedest phony I've met this week."
"They said you'd say that, but all I want is to see the man and then
I'll know. I'll tell you in a jiffy if he's my brother."
"All right."
Charles Blackwell gulped a throatful of smoke in disbelief. Evidently
they'd told him it wouldn't be as easy as this. They must have told him
it would be as hard as hell, because he stared at Brent as though the
latter hadn't played fair.
Brent reached into a drawer and took out a glossy photo. He pushed it
across the desk. Charles Blackwell craned his neck, looked, and saw what
appeared to be a man lying naked on a marble slab with his throat cut.
Blackwell swallowed hard and nodded and said, "Yeah, that's Jack, all
right."
"How do you know?"
"I can tell."
"You can?"
Charles Blackwell got a little indignant. "Of course, I can. Don't you
think a man knows his own brother?"
"That depends on which man and what brother."
"I want the body of my relative," Charles Blackwell said.
"I'll see you in hell first," Brent Taber replied pleasantly. "Now get
out of my office before I send for the man who uses the broom around
here."
Charles Blackwell was more comfortable now--more confident. "That's what
they told me you'd say, so they gave me this to bring. It's a court
order signed by a judge who sits in a court and listens to people's
beefs about getting pushed around and does something about it."
Brent Taber took the paper and peered at the signature. "It figures," he
said softly. "It figures right down the line."
"He's a fine judge," Charles Blackwell said virtuously.
"He's a skunk. He'll sign anything there's a buck in, and sometimes
he'll do it for fifty cents. He'd be a disgrace even to a park bench,
and why they haven't caught up with him I'll never know."
"A fine man," Charles Blackwell said, "and the paper is as legal as--"
"Oh, it's legal all right."
Brent Taber lapsed into silence and Charles Blackwell seemed happy to
allow him this privilege. _All I need_, Brent thought, _is a
court-defiance rap charged against me. Is that what Crane is trying to
get? Did he expect me to throw this creep out of my office and leave
myself wide open? Maybe, maybe not. If not, what is Crane after? He's
certainly achieved his purpose in getting even with an upstart
government appointee._
"Okay," Brent Taber said decisively. "You can have the body. Come with
me."
He got up, put on his hat, and strode out through the reception room and
into the corridor. Charles Blackwell came scuttling along behind. Brent
ignored the elevators and went through a door marked _Stairway_ and
started down at a fast clip. Charles Blackwell came clopping along
behind.
Six flights lower down, Blackwell gasped, "Why don't we use the
el--elevator?"
Brent ignored him and went down seventeen more flights. Charles
Blackwell was livid when they reached the bottom.
"For Christ sake--!"
Taber walked to the curb and dived out into traffic. Blackwell plunged
out after him, horns snarling and general indignation ruling above the
chaos.
They reached the opposite curb through some obscure miracle, with
Blackwell hanging on grimly until Taber pushed a door open and plunged
into a thick odor of formaldehyde.
"Have you still got that court order?" Taber asked as though hopeful of
a negative answer.
Blackwell held it up triumphantly. A few minutes later, he was gaping
down at a hasty reassembly of what had once been the ninth android.