"You're sure?" Taber said sarcastically. "It looks just like the
picture.
"Not quite. Anyhow, it ain't Jack."
The mystified Dr. Entman eyed Taber quizzically. "What's this all
about?"
Taber jerked a thumb in the direction of Blackwell. "The eleventh
android," he said tersely, and strode out of the laboratory.
Dr. Entman shook his head sadly, certain that Taber had slipped a cog.
* * * * *
Charles Blackwell, a trifle ill from the smell of formaldehyde, stood on
the corner, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath. When he opened his
eyes a man in a blue suit was standing beside him.
"I would like you to answer some questions for me," the man said.
Blackwell gulped and blinked. "Sorry, mister, I'm kind of a stranger
here myself."
"That man you entered this building with--what business did you have
with him?"
It should have occurred to Charles Blackwell that this was none of the
stranger's business, but it didn't. That thought came later but, at the
moment, as he looked into the man's oddly empty eyes, his question
seemed entirely justified.
"Well, you see, my brother Jack bothers us, kind of. He gets
manic-depressive spells."
"What did that have to do with Brent Taber?"
"We thought maybe my brother broke his leg and then dropped dead or--or
something. Anyhow, I got this here court order--they gave it to me--and
I showed it to Taber--"
"Who are _they_?"
Blackwell felt strangely excited. He felt as though this man were a
friend, although he didn't know quite why.
"Well, you see I've been around a long time. I run errands and things
for Senator Crane. I'm confidential to him, you understand, because I
never talk. I always keep my mouth shut. So he trusts me and he gave me
this here court order--"
"Who is Senator Crane?"
"You don't know Senator Crane? You new in this country maybe?"
"He is a government official?"
"He's elected to office. He's a United States Senator. Anyhow, Brent
Taber showed me this here guy all cut up and I said it wasn't Jack
and--well, that was that."
"What room did Brent Taber take you to?"
"The damn place smelled like a skunk factory."
"What room number?"
"Ten twenty-six--I think. Yeah, ten twenty-six it was, and I'm telling
you, if you go in there, for Christ sake wear a gas mask. I damn near--"
But Charles Blackwell was talking to himself. The man had turned away
abruptly and was now disappearing around the corner.
"I wonder what the hell he wanted?" Blackwell asked plaintively. Then he
hailed a cab and went to report to Senator Crane.
* * * * *
The tenth android stood with his back to the window in Les King's room
in Manhattan and said, "There is something I want you to do. If you are
very careful, you will succeed. If you succeed, there is a great deal of
money in it for you."
The fear that grew in Les King when they were apart, the uneasy feeling
that maybe money wasn't the most important thing in the world, died
automatically as John Dennis stared at him through those strangely empty
eyes.
"Is it something I can handle?"
"Yes." Dennis handed King a folded slip of paper. "I have written down
an address there. It is in Washington, D.C. I want you to enter those
premises--that room--and find some reports that should be there."
"Reports on what?"
"It is a dissecting place of some kind. That's where the bodies of the
androids are. The man who is doing it must have reports. There must be
records that tell what was wrong with the androids. It must be put down
somewhere why they died."
"Does it matter?"
"It is a matter of vital importance. There will be much money for you if
you get those reports and give them to me."
"Who pays the money?"
"I will pay it to you if you get the reports."
The prospect was exciting to King. Later, there could be a story about
how he got vital pictures of the project. His thinking had changed, but
this did not seem odd to him. All thought of functioning in
counterespionage against the Russians had moved into the back of his
mind. He was in the game now for the money. Oh was it that? Maybe he was
in it for the excitement. There was something in the man who called
himself John Dennis that generated excitement. It was like living a
melodrama. It tingled in the blood and took a man out of the drab world
where every day was like the one before it.
"I'll try," Les King said.
"You will succeed."
"I will succeed."
Jesus! This man had a thing about him. He inspired you. When he looked
at you with those weird eyes, you just knew you couldn't fail.
10
The doorbell rang. Rhoda Kane sprang up from the sofa and almost spilled
her drink. She was halfway across the room before she realized she was
almost running. She stopped. The hand that held the cocktail glass
shook.
Resolutely, she steadied, crossed to the liquor cabinet, put down the
glass, and went calmly to the door.
He stood there looking at her through those oddly empty eyes which,
through some contradiction of all probability, warmed her.
He came in and closed the door, saying nothing. A touch of panic rippled
through her. He was so silent, so unbending, so impersonal. Was this a
reflection of her inability to communicate with him? Could their
relationship fail because of this shortcoming on her part? What good was
love if you couldn't communicate it to the loved one?
She moved into his arms and raised her lips. His arms went around her,
but there was no pressure or affection in them. Their lips were an inch
apart. Her urge was to give full rein to the heady happiness and
excitement within her--to show her love in a kiss.
But she held off and, after a few moments, he drew, back, raised one
hand and passed it through her hair. Not with affection, she thought,
but rather with curiosity; almost as though he were preoccupied with its
composition. He rolled a strand of hair between thumb and finger,
testing it.
"It needs cutting," Rhoda said.
"Do you cut it?"