When it did, it revealed a heavily painted young woman. She frowned at him quizzically and said, mumbling, "San Francisco Police Department, Felony Division, yes, sir, do you wish to speak to somebody?"
"Inspector Cargill, please," Ah Tran said.
"And who should I tell him is calling?"
He started to tell her, then paused, smiling to himself. If he said Ah Tran, he would only succeed in confusing the poor girl; after all, his face was known throughout the world. So he said, "Tell him Donald Tapman."
"Donald who?"
He spelled his last name for her. Twice.
A moment after that, the girl disappeared to be replaced, momentarily, by the impassive visage of Inspector Cargill.
"Now what have you gone and done to yourself?" he asked.
Ah Tran laughed. "Only what you told me to do."
Cargill shook his head. "I didn't say you should do that."
"I know. But I'm afraid I've started taking my responsibilities seriously."
"I warned you that might happen."
"By going to visit the android in his quarters, I assumed the position of an inferior. Since an inferior should never lie to one who occupies a higher position and since all that make-up of mine was really a lie, I decided to take it off. As soon as I'm through talking to you, I'll put it on again."
"Was he surprised?"
"Very."
"Did it help?"
"He said yes."
Cargill nodded thoughtfully. He started to smile, then seemed to change his mind: "When?" he asked, after a long pause.
"I've scheduled the session in an hour. I assume we don't have much time."
"The war should start sometime tonight."
"Tonight, but—" The news had shaken him deeply. It meant they had no chance at all of succeeding in time. "We've lost."
"Perhaps. They're in a hurry. The primitive nations have received intelligence—from guess who?--describing the inefficiency of the androids. Of course, they feel they have to move now, before the design is corrected."
"Will we be safe here?" Unconsciously, Ah Tran's eyes strayed toward the open, vulnerable ceiling.
Cargill nodded. "Oh, yes. I imagine the fighting will be limited to the usual border zones. It'll turn into an ugly stalemate."
"Which is what they want."
"Yes."
Now it was Ah Tran's turn to pause and consider. He glanced at his watch. "I assume Richmond is doing the designs for the new model."
"Yes, he's supposed to turn them in tomorrow at dawn."
"Do you think he's safe? Surely, they don't want—"
"I doubt it. At this point, they'd kill him in a minute."
"What are you going to do?"
"Go over there and try to stop them."
"Don't leave until you've heard from me."
"I won't—I can't. If they get to him before then—" Car-gill gave a sad, philosophical shrug "—then we're in a mess. But there's nobody I can trust to help him—except me. Nobody, I'm beginning to find out, is quite what they seem to be. I can't take that risk. I managed to shuffle Hopkins aside but they still have his wife, you know. I've tried to check her out and, as far as I can determine, she hasn't entered the city but—well, they are supermen."
"Yes." He needed no reminder of that fact. "Are you going to put the question to him?"
"Only if the android fails."
"I think he will."
"Why?"
"Because," Ah Tran said, "I've felt them up there. In that place. Before. It's difficult to explain. It isn't space and yet—in the sense that it can be occupied, inhabited—it is a region that parallels normal space. Our bodies occupy space; our minds, our souls, occupy this other place. Well, I've felt them up there—in there—observing me. When I've taken the gestalt upward. They've never tried to interfere. I haven't come close enough to success for them to make the effort. But, if there was ever any real danger—I'm sure of this—they would act and act at once. The android would never be able to resist them."
"They'd kill him."
"If they could. And I think they could."
"And you too?"
"I hope not," Ah Tran said.
"Richmond might do better."
"I hope so."
"Then call me," Cargill said.
"Will he say yes?"
"He may."
"May?"
"That's the best I can do. We'll be lucky if he's still alive."
"All right," Ah Tran said.
Cargill agreed. "All right."
The screen went blank. Shaking his head slowly, Ah Tran laid down the phone receiver and stepped away from the wall. He glanced briefly at his watch. Forty minutes. He unlocked the door and went into the bathroom and then into the large bedroom. He locked both doors and sat down in front of a dressing table and mirror. He began applying the make-up to his face. He drew wrinkles and creases in the smooth flesh of his face. He turned the bald peak of his skull forty years older. He laid bags under both eyes and dyed his light beard dull gray. He added pockets of sagging flesh to his throat, extended the lobes of his ears, and put a tired twist into the tip of his nose. Then, moving down, he began to roughen the tight skin on the backs of his hands.
He knew this other face—the one which, in stages, began to appear in the mirror—far better than he knew his own. But the fact remained: he wasn't Ah Tran; he was Donald Tapman. He didn't feel this made him a fake. He was an actor. Five years ago, he had belonged to a small, communal theatrical company touring the primitive East—Pakistan, Bangladesh, India, in particular. The company performed in native villages—Shakespeare, for the most part—then passed the hat. Poetry for the masses, so to speak. He had fallen in love with the East. Like any intelligent young man born in Brooklyn, he thought it was a very mysterious place. He particularly liked their religions. He had been raised a Baptist. He spoke to gurus, various messiahs, prophets, healers, mystics. Often, because of the extreme poverty in the villages they visited, the company went hungry. He noticed that few mystics— except on purpose—ever went hungry. He learned that, in past centuries, Eastern religions had swept the West briefly as fads. Buddhism would be as popular for a time with Western European intellectuals as cake with the masses. The Tibetan Book of the Dead—or the I Ching— would top student bestseller lists. Gurus would tour America, reaping material rewards. This did not mean the mystics were fakes; he was sure most—if not all—had been benevolently motivated. So was he. One night, he slipped away from the company, carrying several jars of make-up. Two days later, he appeared in the Western colony of Calcutta. Nobody would have been likely to recognize him. He said his name was Ah Tran and he came from Tibet. (Sometimes he forgot and said Nepal instead.) The new name was meaningless, but he liked the sound the two syllables made together.
Within a week, he had established a small but devoted following. At first, he begged from tourists but, within a month, he had developed and unveiled the philosophy of the circle, the cycle. Further converts quickly came and he required each to sign his worldly goods over to the new messiah. He incorporated the movement, hired a lawyer, built a school of disciples, and left India to tour the world. He never went hungry any more.
And—when?—sometime—three years ago maybe—he had accidentally stumbled across a certain fact of existence which had, at first, nearly forced him to renounce his following and flee for his sanity. By accident—he could not accept the idea of divine intervention—he had discovered what no one except a few mystics had guessed before: that the human mind, under certain conditions, possessed the ability to escape the confines of its body and roam about in a nonspatial place which might well be heaven.
For another year, he had kept this knowledge secret. He ceased meditating; he concentrated on preaching.
Then, last year, Cargill had come to him and exposed the existence of a small group of supermen—the Inheritors. He had thought at first that Cargill, despite his credentials, was merely another crackpot. He had k
nown many such—they were an occupational hazard. But Cargill happened to be telling the truth. The Inheritors did exist. He soon learned this.
Cargill asked for his help. What else could he say? He said yes.
And now here he was. Dabbling his face with a last minute coat of make-up. Ignoring, as befitted his stature, the insistent rapping on the bedroom door. Five minutes. He was about to risk his life, his sanity and—who knows?— perhaps his soul.
Why? For what?
Why, to save the world of course. What else?
Brooklyn was a long way away.
Seventeen
Alec thought this ought to be the only way to live. It was late—past midnight—and he was alone in the rear room of the office seated in front of his desk. In one hand he held a pencil; the other rested upon the top corner of a small notepad. The paper was almost blank—a few vague squiggles. But he was working—yes—thinking, dreaming, calculating, devising, designing, conjuring, and as far as he was concerned nothing at all might exist beyond the boundaries of this one small room. And he liked it that way.
The general had visited him yesterday afternoon. It wasn't Hopkins, with whom he had always dealt before, but another man—American Air Force. General Hopkins, the new man had said, was temporarily on leave. Alec didn't question this assertion—on leave with full-scale war about to erupt at any moment?—because he had long since grown accustomed to the military and its crazy ways.
"We seem to have a dreadful problem," the new general said.
"Well, what?" Alec asked.
"About your androids."
"Well, tell me---it can't be that bad."
"Oh, it is. It's worse. It's awful."
"Tell me."
It seemed—the general related—that during recent field maneuvers, an apparent flaw in the design of the latest model android soldiers had come to light. They—the soldiers—no longer appeared able to hold on to their weapons properly. They could aim well enough—that was not the problem—and even fire a clean initial shot. After firing, they took immediate cover. All of this was fine. But, standing to advance after taking cover, nine times out of ten they forgot and left their weapons behind. Why?
Alec had no compunctions about telling the general why. It wasn't the design, he insisted. The fault was theirs—the government, the army—in failing to realize that an android was a good deal more than a complicated hunk of machinery. In the last year more than half-a-million had been produced; forty percent of that total had come in the past sixty days. Computers—and all android production was, of course, computerized now—could perform a given task faster and, in most respects, better than any number of human workmen. Computers were fine for producing clocks, televisaphones, clothes-making machines, hovercraft, walkway components. But, as far as androids were concerned, an essential factor was missing—the personal factor—the human. The first androids had each been skillfully produced by human hands. The most recent had not. The first androids had been men in almost every sense except birth; the most recent were hardly more than flesh-colored automata. They could move—oh, yes—and walk, talk, aim, fire, fall. But they could not think. They did not seem to be aware that they were supposed to. If the general wanted to build a perfect android specimen, then Alec could tell him exactly how. For each one—each and every android—assign one man to oversee all aspects of that android's production. Let computers push the buttons and read the gauges and operate the conveyor belts. But if the general wanted success, then he needed that one man on the spot.
The general had flushed—almost as if he were embarrassed. "You talk almost like an android needs a mother."
"Yes—or a father. Someone, anyone who is human."
"It's impossible—we don't have the men—or the time."
"It takes a woman nine months to produce a child. An android is no less complicated."
"Impossible."
So Alec had agreed to a compromise. For a flat fee of a million new dollars, he consented to design an android equipped with a modern beam rifle inside its right arm. That way, to fire, the android would only have to point a finger at the target and press down with its thumb on a button implanted in the palm.
"That ought to work," the general had agreed. "Unless they start losing their hands."
"I told you how to solve your problem," Alec had said.
"Impossible—but we'll need this new design right away."
"I'll get right to it."
When Alec told Sylvia Mencken about the new contract, she flew into a furious rage and said she wouldn't sign. He tried to explain—as patiently as he could—that if they refused to sign the government could easily find someone else. The military owned the patents to the original designs and what they now wanted was only a minor modification. Anyone with a smattering of engineering ability could do it. Sylvia calmed down. She explained she had lost her temper because she was sick and tired of the work. She wanted them to have a chance to get away from the city for a few days—maybe even two weeks or a full month—a vacation---go somewhere where there weren't any soldiers or androids or beam guns.
Alec smiled and shook his head. "I don't think there is anyplace like that in the world any more."
"Well, we could try to find it."
"Well, we will. I promised the general I'd deliver the new design by dawn the day after tomorrow. After that, we can go, if the war doesn't catch us first."
"We'll run fast."
He had laughed.
And that was why he was here now—at one o'clock in the morning—doing what he was doing.
Somebody knocked at the door behind.
"Come in," Alec said, without turning around. He knew it had to be Sylvia. She had been in and out all night.
As soon as he heard the beat of her high heels clicking across the floor, he swiveled in his chair.
"Any progress?" she asked.
"Some."
"How much?"
He grinned and answered slowly. "I should be done in an hour or less. All I have to do is write it up."
Oddly, he thought he sensed a flash of radiated disappointment, but then her intense joy and pleasure smothered that. She clapped her hands together and said, "Oh, I'm glad."
"Me too. Now we can get out of here."
"Yes," she said, holding up her hands suddenly. He flinched backward but all it was was a shiny aluminum flask. "Coffee?"
"Sure—anything," he said.
"This is all we have." She leaned over, pouring coffee into his cup. Then she stood up, smiled quickly, and started to go out. Her radiated joy had barely been diminished.
"Wait," he said. She stopped, not turning. "I guess I might as well see him now."
"Are you sure?" She seemed concerned, fearful. "Why don't you just go out and tell me to get lost? I've tried but he just smiles and says it's official business. At one in the morning."
"I suppose he knows what he's doing. But I think I'd better see him." He sipped his coffee, ignoring as best he could the foul, bitter taste. Anna had always made real coffee—she had the beans imported directly from Colombia—and any artificial blend tasted like stagnant water in comparison. "I'll get rid of him as soon as I can, then finish the last of the project, call the army, and go home."
Sylvia opened her mouth as if to speak, then seemed to think better of it. She turned and went out.
Alec swiveled back to his desk.
A few minutes later, the door opened once more and Sylvia came in followed by Inspector Cargill, who nodded vaguely at Alec, then stood in the middle of the room, rocking on the balls of his feet, blowing gently upon a steaming cup of coffee. When Sylvia left, he came over and leaned against Alec's desk. He was wearing a huge, heavy overcoat which concealed his body and shape like a thick winter hide.
"Quite a place you have here," he said, ambiguously.
"What do you mean by that?" Alec asked, leaning back in his chair, glaring up at Cargill.
"Oh, you know. From the front, this could be almost anyt
hing: lawyer's office, doctor, even a cop. But, back here-well, you can see—it's the place where a serious man works."
"I also have a laboratory I use."
"I am aware of that," Cargill said, defensively, as if his professional ability had been questioned.
"I thought you would be," Alec said, sighing. What did Cargill want? Were they going to have to sit like this for hours before the inspector got around to exposing his hand? There were times when Cargill never seemed to reach the subject, when he sat for long minutes, talking aimlessly, asking an occasional, usually senseless question, then suddenly standing up, bowing, smiling, leaving. Since the murder of Ted Mencken, Alec guessed he had been visited by Cargill an average of twice-a-month. He had no clear idea why. He didn't think Cargill suspected him of the murder any longer—if he ever had; it should have been plain enough by now that Alec was innocent. Cargill himself had never changed. His mind remained as taut and controlled as ever. He made Alec no less uncomfortable than the first time they had met. And there was still the matter of Timothy Ralston's murder. He was convinced—despite the dying man's denial—that Cargill was somehow involved. Exactly how, he did not, of course, know.
"How is your wife—Anna?" Cargill asked, his eyes peeping over the edge of his high coat collar. He had intercepted Alec's next line of thought. "I haven't seen her lately."
"She left me nearly eight months ago," Alec said. "Don't tell me you didn't know that."
"I saw one of her tape sculptures recently," Cargill went on, oblivious to Alec's interruption. "An older work, I believe. An excellent piece—quite fine—moving—beautiful."
"Not Crime and Punishment?" Alec asked, sarcastically.
"Oh, no. This was a wholly original composition. But no less remarkable for that. Your wife is an extremely talented woman, Mr. Richmond. My own, as you may know, is dead."
Anderson, Poul - Novel 17 Page 12
