by Anthology
"Do that to me," he said.
Mystified, Rhoda pressed her finger against his neck until she could feel a pulse in his throat. She withdrew the finger. "Like that?"
"Did it leave a mark?"
"No. Is there something wrong? Do you have a sore throat?"
"My throat is not sore."
Rhoda's frustration was a pitiful thing. How could she get to him? How could she break through his shyness?
"I think you're afraid of me," she said lightly.
He did not answer. He took a backward step and regarded her for a moment with a frown. Then he began to unbutton her blouse.
Rhoda wanted to object. An instinctive protest caused her to draw back. His only reaction to this was to step forward and continue to unbutton her blouse. She wanted to resist but the fear of driving him away held her mute; that and something in his eyes that told of excitement, an unformed phantom of delight that had never materialized but still held sway over her through promise.
He stripped the blouse off. She wore no brassiere underneath, and he regarded her breasts somberly. He pressed a nipple with the tip of one finger and watched it spring back into place.
"Please. I—"
He ignored her. He pressed the nipple again and then found the zipper on the side of her slacks. He pulled it down and pushed the slacks down over her hips. She lifted each foot obediently.
He was on his knees now, running his fingers gently down her thighs. Rhoda trembled at the touch. Then she realized it was not love-making on his part—not in any sense. He was preoccupied with the fine hair on her skin. He studied it closely.
"I should have shaved my legs," Rhoda said uncertainly. He raised his head, the cold eyes trained into hers. "This hair grows, too?"
Rhoda caught her lower lip between her teeth. Tears were close to the surface.
This is crazy. This is utterly insane. I'm mad or he's mad. I don't know. I just don't know …
The last garment was removed and she was naked there in the middle of the living room. He studied her body again, that passionless, preoccupied frown on his face. He drew her down onto the floor and, for a moment, the room spun around Rhoda, her emotional entrapment now the focal point, the eye of the storm that raged in her being. He went on with his minute inspection of her person.
No—no. Please don't. Please don't treat me like this. I'm a woman. Don't be contemptuous of me. Oh, no—please. Don't degrade and humiliate me like this.
There was sudden pain. Rhoda's body wrenched and heaved upward. With a sob, she sank back to the floor.
I must fight. I must not allow this. I must not let him do these cruel, degrading things to me. I must fight but I am afraid to. I am afraid he'll go away and never come back—and if he did that, there would be nothing left for me.
John Dennis seemed to become aware for the first time that certain manipulations caused reaction—the jerking of Rhoda's body and her involuntary cry of pain. He repeated the manipulation with his eyes on her face.
I cannot allow this. I must fight. I must resist. Oh, Rhoda Kane, what has happened to you? Frank, please help, help me. Frank—
But something seemed to flow out of John Dennis and into her mind and soul and spirit; something that made the flesh and what was done to the flesh unimportant.
The touch of John Dennis' hand brought fright as it foretold further pain and degradation. Rhoda sobbed inwardly and braced herself to withstand whatever was to come.
Mad!—mad!—mad!
But it meant nothing.
* * * * *
The building was not for tourists. It wasn't like the Pentagon or the White House or any of the other historical or glamour symbols in Washington, D.C. It was on a side street, and while no one associated it with governmental activity, it was of a size and importance that justified a uniformed attendant in the lobby.
He was a hard-bitten old Irishman named Callahan, and nobody got past him without justification. Also, he was a man of robust hates and great loyalties; a man whom Brent Taber was honored to call friend.
He was also a man Brent Taber was waiting to hear from.
The call came late in the afternoon of the day following Charles Blackwell's search for his would-be brother. Taber picked up the phone.
"It's me—Callahan. He's here, Mr. Taber."
"Thanks. I'll be right over."
"And be hurrying right along if you want to get here in time. He's not one to be restrained indefinitely."
"Tell him the elevator's busted."
Brent Taber slammed the phone down and left. He used an elevator this time and went across town in a cab. Even then, he was almost too late. As he arrived at his destination, Senator Crane was protesting loudly.
"It's just plain stupidity. Elevators don't quit running for no reason. Find a burnt-out fuse. Do something! And do it quick or I'll phone somebody who will!"
"Well, I'll be blessed," Callahan said, completely crest-fallen. "It was the switch, Senator. The blessed switch was off."
"Well, turn it on and get me up to ten."
"Good afternoon, Senator."
Crane whirled. "Brent Taber!" He threw a quick scowl at Callahan and was on the verge of accusing the Irishman of high treason, but he said, "All right. I'm glad you're here, Taber. We might as well get this thing into the open. Are you going to take me to room ten twenty-six or do I have to take steps to force your co-operation?"
Taber stared morosely at Crane's nose. "Why, Senator, where did you get the idea my department wouldn't help a member of Congress to the utmost?"
"None of your sarcasm. Let's go upstairs."
"All right, Callahan. Let's go upstairs."
They got off on ten and walked down the corridor. "Ten twenty-eight, you said?"
"You know damned well what I said."
Taber opened the door. He stood aside. Crane walked in and stopped dead. He again whirled on Crane.
"It's empty."
"That's right. I could have told you downstairs but you wouldn't have believed me. What were you looking for? New quarters?"
"Taber, I'll break you for this! If you think you can thwart the will of the United States Senate—"
"You've been doing a pretty good job of breaking already."
"I haven't even begun!"
"That still doesn't tell me what you thought you'd find."
"Quit being cute. This time yesterday there were cadavers in here. This was a laboratory!"
Brent looked wearily at his watch. "You're wrong, Senator. This place was vacated exactly an hour and fifteen minutes after your stooge used his court order to locate the cadavers."
"Then you admit you defied a court order—"
"Oh, come off of it. The court order said nothing about leaving things as they were. But that's not important. The important thing is that you give me some understanding and sympathy."
This obviously astounded Crane. "From you? That from the cocky, self-sufficient Brent Taber? That's a little different tune from the one you sang in your office, not too long ago."
"All right. I'll concede that. Let's say you've got me licked. I'll admit I should have reacted a little less arrogantly. My nerves were shot. I'd been up late too often. Now I'm ready to be reasonable."
Crane was scowling. "This isn't like you, Taber—not like you at all. I'm suspicious. Why are you suddenly so agreeable?"
"Because I believe the nation—the world—is in great danger. I think we should all realize that danger and work together."
"Then why have you been fighting me?"
"Because I honestly felt it was the best thing to do. I've changed my mind. I'm willing to tell you the whole story."
"I've heard the whole story. I—"
"Then it was you who had my office taped."
"Exactly. I'm not ashamed of it. When I'm fighting for my constituents I use every weapon at my command."
Brent Taber regarded Crane narrowly. "I underestimated your abilities, Senator. That was fast work. Twenty mi
nutes after I refused you permission to attend that meeting, you had your man briefed and in action. It was the waiter who brought in the coffee, wasn't it?"
Before Crane could answer, Taber gestured and said, "Never mind. That's not important. You've heard the tape, so tell me—what do you want from me? How can I earn your co-operation?"
"Quite simply, Taber. By recognizing my authority as a United States Senator. By keeping me briefed on your progress against this terrible thing that menaces our people. By accepting my active co-operation in destroying it."
"What exactly do you mean by active?"
"Just what the word implies. Have the men on the senatorial committee you briefed been at all active in helping you?"
"Frankly, no."
"Then what right have they to expect any rewards—shall we say?—for their efforts?"
"You may have a point."
"I believe in rewards where rewards are due."
"And you want—?"
"In plain terms, the right to association in the public mind with the effort to protect the nation."
"You want favorable publicity if and when this matter makes headlines?"
"Is that too much to ask?"
Brent Taber suddenly seemed lost and, in truth, he was wondering why in hell he'd approached Crane in this way. He felt ashamed for even considering the possibility of bending to the will of a windbag like Crane. Good Lord, he thought, I must be tired. I was on the point of playing the jellyfish.
Abruptly his voice sharpened. "I'm sorry, I can't promise you that."
"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."
King pointed toward the room. "Something important?"
"Routine—only routine."
Then, to Les King's pract
iced eye, Entman proved it wasn't routine at all by entering the laboratory and gathering up a loose pile of notes lying there on a table. He seemed to momentarily forget King's presence as he went through the notes, sorted them carefully, and brought them back into the office.
King watched as Entman then deposited them in a small safe. He closed the safe but didn't lock it. Then he turned, beamed myopically at his visitor, and said, "Now I'm at your service, young man."
"Fine, Doctor. Now, this series we're planning will highlight modern techniques with an eye to illustrating …"
While King asked questions and Entman answered, another part of King's mind was busy with the real problem at hand. Entman would, no doubt, lock the safe before he left the office. Burglary—a risk King was willing to take—would get him back into the office when no one was around, but how could he open the safe? Walking straight to the thing he was after had been fine. Having been put in a position to get to know what the notes looked like was another astounding piece of good fortune. All this, however, could turn out to mean nothing because he didn't know how to crack a safe.
He would have to report failure after being so close.
"As I said," Entman prattled on happily, "when I was at Johns Hopkins I—"
The desk phone rang. Entman picked it up, answered it and then hung up. "Would I impose if I asked you for a fifteen-minute break? Some people are calling that I must see—an appointment I forgot."
"Not at all," Les King assured him. "I'd like to do a little work on these notes to see if I left out anything."
"So good of you. Boring people, really. I'll get rid of them as soon as possible."
Entman left through an inner door and King was stunned by his good luck. He called it that even while experience and judgment shrieked warnings. This was too pat—too easy. Something was phony in the setup.
But he didn't even have to fight what common sense was telling him. He was too busy opening the safe, spreading the data out on the desktop, and using a small camera he carried in the side pocket of his jacket.
Then, he put the data back in the safe and felt the hot, excitement surge up through his body.
* * * * *
"I'm afraid I owe you a drink," Entman said ruefully.
