"Taber, you're a fool! I'll get it anyhow. I told you I'd break you if
you got in my way, and you've been almost discredited already. Don't you
know when to quit?"
"Maybe that's my trouble, Senator. Maybe I'm bull-headed. Anyhow, right
or wrong, I'll play out this string to the end. Good day--and I hope you
enjoy your new offices."
* * * * *
An hour later, back at his own phone, Taber got a second call from
Callahan. "There's another one."
"Another one? I don't follow you."
"A photographer from New York City. He's being real cagey, this one, but
I know the breed. The kind that's so stupid-clever he outsmarts
himself."
"What's he after?"
"Sounds to me like he wants the same thing as the Senator."
"Hmmm," Taber mused. "Those are mighty popular cadavers, aren't they,
Callahan?"
"I'm blessed if they aren't."
"All right. You tell Mr. King--that is his name, isn't it?"
"You've got good eyesight--reading a blasted press card from clear
across town."
"I'm clairvoyant, Callahan. Tell you what you do--give me fifteen
minutes to make a phone call and then send him after the bodies."
"To the right place?"
"To the right place. And hold out for a good price. Get what the traffic
will bear. I'd say maybe fifty dollars. Allow yourself to be bribed real
good."
"I'll do that."
11
As with Rhoda Kane's mind, Les King's seemed to be divided into two
sections. One of these kept him in a state of perpetual uneasiness at
what the other was forcing him to do. He realized that venting your
frustrations against bureaucrats was one thing, but actively engaging in
dangerous snooping was quite another.
In the moments of uncertainty after John Dennis sent him to Washington,
D.C. with orders to get his hands on certain data, Les King bolstered
his courage by telling himself that, what the hell, he'd planned all
along to go right ahead and dig out the complete android through
whatever means possible. Therefore, meeting and teaming up with Dennis
had been a big break.
The rationalization wasn't too comforting, though, because he knew he
could never have gone ahead on his own. Also, he realized he and Dennis
weren't a team at all. Dennis ordered; he obeyed. Still, the sense of
excitement Dennis generated in him had its effect on the other part of
his mind, and this was the stronger; this held sway. Somehow, there was
the certainty that Dennis did not make mistakes; that everything would
work out.
This conviction was jarred a little when he got past the lobby man in
the Washington building--a feat easily accomplished--climbed ten flights
of stairs, and found room ten twenty-eight empty. Obviously, Dennis had
goofed.
King's first instinct was to retreat as quietly as he'd advanced; to get
away from the place and report failure to Dennis. But as he went back
downstairs, the thought of Dennis' disapproval began weighing more
heavily. Maybe something unforeseen had happened. Maybe he could still
pull this one out of the fire.
With this hope foremost in his mind, he went into the lobby, assumed a
bold front, and demanded: "Where in the hell did the people in ten
twenty-eight go?"
And the front worked. The lobby man, a big Irishman, was so impressed he
didn't even ask King how he'd gotten into the building. He blinked
politely and said, "Blessed if I'm not new here myself. This is my first
day. What room was it?"
Then the big Irishman went to a phone to check, and came back with a
Georgetown address written out on a slip of paper. Georgetown seemed
like an unlikely place to find cadavers and, under normal conditions,
King would have been highly suspicious of the whole thing. But what the
hell? Nothing was normal about this project, so why not follow through?
_King, you're crazy. You're out of your stupid mind._
He raised his hand and a cab cut in toward the curb.
When he arrived at the address, he found himself standing on the walk in
front of a large, imposing house. The place still seemed unlikely but
you never could tell. The way things were these days, any house in
whatever neighborhood was a potential location for almost anything. The
way this one was laid out, there could possibly have been a laboratory
in the back. A narrow walk led in that direction and, instead of
climbing the front steps, King followed it around the corner and found a
basement door at the foot of a flight of steps.
He hesitated before ringing the bell. What kind of an approach would he
use? The idea was to get inside and see the layout--spot the office, the
file cabinets. The feature-story bit? It might work, but who the hell
lived here? He'd checked the mailbox beside the front porch but there'd
been no name.
Deciding he could only play it by ear, he pulled in his diaphragm and
rang the bell.
The door opened quickly--too quickly, it seemed--and King realized he'd
struck a pay lode in the myopic-looking little jerk who stood peering
out at him. The guy wore a white laboratory coat with two bloodstains on
it and was holding a scalpel in his hand.
"I'm Doctor Entman. Can I help you?"
Entman--Entman--for Christ sake. Oh, sure, a neurologist. Had to be the
same guy. International authority. The _Times_ once did a feature on his
arrival at Idlewild. UN stuff.
"I'm King of the _Herald Tribune_," Les said, lying easily.
"We're shaping up a feature on the more advanced neurological
techniques--Sunday supplement material. They sent me down to see if
you'd give us some of your views."
"I'd be delighted. Come in. Come in."
"I'm not imposing on your time, I hope."
"Not at all!"
The guy was almost too cordial, but what the hell? All their noses
twitched at the smell of publicity.
Entman led him down a cement-floored corridor, the smell of formaldehyde
thickening as they went, then into a small office with an open door, on
the far side through which Les King was confronted with a frankly
gruesome sight--a dissecting room with parts of cadavers lying around
like orders in a meat packer's shipping room.
"Won't you sit down, please? There by the desk."
As Entman gestured, he noted King's reaction to the sight and the smell
of the dissecting room.
"Just a moment. I'll close that door."
"No, don't bother, Doctor. I'd better get the authentic atmosphere. It
makes a better story."
"I admire your courage, young man."