by Anthology
* * * * *
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 Blackwel
l 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.
He swallowed hard and said, "Nope. It ain't Jack."
"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?"
She laughed nervously. "You don't know much about women, do you."
"I know nothing about woman."
Trying to inject a gay note into her voice, she said, "We eat, we sleep, we—we're very functional, really."
He rubbed a finger down her cheek. He pressed the flesh on her neck and watched the muscle spring back as he withdrew his finger.
