by Anthology
* * * * *
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."
