Ten From Infinity

  12

  Frank Corson entered the office of Wilson Maynard, Superintendent ofPark Hill Hospital. Maynard looked out over the tops of hisold-fashioned pince-nez glasses and said, "Oh, Doctor Corson. You phonedfor a chat."

  It was the rather pompous superintendent's way of saying he was happy togive Frank Corson a little time. He considered all the doctors andnurses at Park Hill his "boys and girls," and he did the "father" bitvery well.

  "Yes, I--"

  Maynard peered even harder. "You don't look well, Frank. Pale. You'vebeen working too hard."

  "Nothing important, Doctor Maynard."

  "Sit down. Will you have a cigarette?"

  "No, thank you. I just wanted to ask you about a transfer."

  "A transfer!" This was amazing. "Aren't you happy at Park Hill?"

  "I've been very happy."

  Maynard went swiftly through a card file on his desk. "You have--let'ssee--five more months of internship. Then--"

  "Then I'd planned to enter private practice. But something personal hascome up and I think a change is for the best."

  "I'm certainly sorry to hear that."

  "One of the men I graduated with went to a hospital in a small Minnesotatown. We've corresponded and he's given me a pretty clear picture--anice town, a need for doctors and physicians--"

  "But we need them here in the East, too."

  "I realize that, and I'm making the move with some regret. But, frankly,New York City no longer appeals to me. I think perhaps a small hospitalis more suited to my temperament."

  "I'm certainly sorry to hear this, Corson. But I won't try to dissuadeyou. Normally, I might bring a little more personal pressure to bear,but I sense that your mind is made up. We're sorry to see you go, butthe best of luck to you."

  "Thank you, sir."

  After Frank Corson left, Superintendent Maynard sorted a memo out of thepile on his desk. The memo concerned Frank Corson. SuperintendentMaynard reread it and thought how well things usually worked out. Now itwouldn't be necessary to have that talk with Corson about sloppy work.Obviously there had been something on the young intern's mind for weeksnow. Too bad. But let the Minnesota hospital, wherever it was, worryabout the trouble and perhaps put Corson on the right track again.

  He was their baby now.

  Maynard took Corson's card from the files and wrote across it: _Transferapproved with regret._

  * * * * *

  Brent Taber stood in the shelter of a doorway on the Lower East Side ofManhattan and watched an entrance across the street. He had been therefor over an hour.

  Another hour passed and Taber shifted from one aching foot to the otheras a man in a blue suit emerged from the entrance and moved off down thestreet.

  When the man had turned a corner, Taber crossed over and looked up atthe brownstone. It was a perfect place to hide--one of the many roominghouses in the city where, if you paid your rent and kept your peace, noone cared who you were or where you came from.

  Not even, Taber reflected, if you had been born in a laboratory and hadcome from someplace among the stars.

  He climbed the steps of the brownstone and tried the knob. The dooropened. He went inside and found himself in a drab, dark hall furnishedwith an umbrella stand, a worn carpet, and a table spread with mail.

  There was a bell on the table. He tapped it and, after a lazy length oftime, a shapeless woman came through a door on the right and regardedhim with no great show of cordiality.

  "Nothing vacant, mister. Everything I've got is rented."

  "I wasn't looking for a room. I'm just doing a little checking."

  "My license is okay," the woman said belligerently. "The place is cleanand orderly."

  "That's not what I'm checking about. There's been some counterfeit moneypassed in this neighborhood and we're trying to trace it down."

  The woman had a pronounced mustache that quivered at this news."Counterfeit! My roomers are honest."

  "I'm sure they are. But some people carry counterfeit money withoutknowing it. Do they all pay in cash?"

  "Only two of them."

  "Men or women?"

  "One girl--Katy Wynn."

  "Where does she work?"

  "Down in Wall Street."

  "Not much chance we're interested. This money has been turning up aroundTimes Square."

  "The other's a man--quiet, no trouble, pays his rent right on the dotevery week. John Dennis his name is and he doesn't look like nocounterfeiter."

  Taber took a forward step. "What's his room number?"

  "Six--on the second floor. But he isn't in now. He just went out."

  "Okay. Maybe I'll be back. As I said, we don't suspect anybody. We'rejust checking for sources."

  Taber turned toward the door. The woman vanished back into her ownquarters as Taber snapped the lock. He stood in the vestibule for aminute or two, studying some cards he took from his pocket, and when shedid not reappear, he opened the door, went back in, and climbed thestairs.

  The door to number six was not locked. Taber went inside. The window wassmall and gave on an areaway. He could see nothing until he turned onthe light. Even then, he could see nothing of interest--the room wasordinary in every sense.

  But as Brent Taber checked it out, some unusual aspects became apparent.There were two pieces of luggage in the closet. One, an oversizedsuitcase, stood on end.

  And jammed neatly down behind it was the body of Les King. His throathad been cut.

  Brent Taber stared down into the closet for what seemed like aninterminable time. His eyes were bleak and his mouth was grim and stiffas he passed a slow hand along his jaw.

  He took a long, backward step and closed his eyes for a moment as thoughhoping the whole improbable mess would go away. But it was still therewhen he opened them again.

  He turned, went downstairs, and took the receiver off the phone on thewall by the front door.

  The shapeless landlady came out again. She scowled at Taber. "What areyou doing here?"

  He regarded her with a kind of affectionate weariness. "Have you got adime, lady?"

  Gaping, she pawed into her apron pocket and handed him a coin.

  "Thanks much." He dialed. "Is Captain Abrams there?"

  There was a wait, during which Brent Taber asked the oddly bemusedlandlady: "Are you afraid of the dead?"

  But before she could decide whether she was or not, Taber turned to thephone. "Captain?.... That's right, Brent Taber ... No, right, here inManhattan. There's been a little trouble. You'd better come overpersonally."

  He turned to the landlady. "What's the address here, sister?"

  And later, with the landlady back in her lair, Brent Taber sat down onthe stairs to wait; sat there with surprise at the feeling of reliefthat filled his mind. He had no feeling of triumph about it; no sense ofa job well done. But there was no great guilt at having failed, either.

  Mostly, he thought, it was the simplification that had come about. Therehad been so many confusing and bewildering complications in the affair;improbability piled on the impossible; the ridiculous coupled with theincredible.

  But now, with one stroke of a knife, it had been simplified and broughtinto terms everyone could understand; into terms Captain Abrams of theNew York Police Department would grasp in an instant.

  A killer was on the loose.

  * * * * *

  One of Senator Crane's priceless gifts was a sense of timing. Much ofhis success had sprung from the instinctive knowledge of when to act. Hehad a sense of the dramatic which never deserted him. As a result, hehad been known to turn in an instant from one subject to another--tododge defeats and score triumphs with bewildering agility.

  His preoccupation on this particular day was with a home-stateissue--the location of a government plant. After he obtained the floor,he counted the house and noted that only a bare quorum was present.Gradually, the members of the Senate of the United States would drift totheir seats. So C
rane began reading letters which tended to support hisstate's claim to the new plant and the benefits that would accruetherefrom.

  Crane droned on. The Vice-President of the United States looked down onthe top of Senator Crane's massive head and became fruitfullypreoccupied with thoughts of his own.

  Then, quite suddenly, the line of Crane's exposition changed. TheVice-President wasn't quite sure at what precise point this had comeabout. He wasn't aware of the change until some very strange wordspenetrated:

  " ... so, therefore, it has become starkly apparent that the Americanpeople have been denied the information which would have made themaware of their own deadly danger. Invasion from space is now imminent."

  The Vice-President tensed. Had the stupid idiot gone mad? Or had he, theVice-President, been in a fog when vital, top-secret information hadbeen made public?

  He banged the gavel down hard, for want of a better gesture, and wasgrateful when a tall, dignified man with a look of deepest concern onhis face rose from behind his desk out on the floor.

  "Will the Senator yield to his distinguished colleague fromPennsylvania?"

  Crane turned, scowling. "I will yield to no man on matters of graveimport." With that he turned and continued with his revelations. "Thepeople of this nation have been deprived of the knowledge that theinvasion from space has already begun. A vanguard of hideous, half-humancreatures have even now achieved a beach-head on our planet. Even now,the evil hordes from beyond the stars ..."

  The Vice-President looked around in a daze. Had someone forgotten tobrief him? Had that project come to a head overnight? The last he'dheard there had been much doubt as to--

  " ... The injustice perpetrated on the American people in this matterhas been monstrous. And this is not because of any lack of knowledge onthe part of the government. It has been because of the petty natures ofthe men to whom this secret has been entrusted. Jealousies have dictatedpolicy where selfless public service was of the most vital importance..."

  The floor was filling up. The visitor's gallery was wrapped in hushedsilence. Newsmen, informed of sensational developments, were rushingdown corridors.

  And the Vice-President was wondering why he hadn't had the good sense torefuse the nomination.

  " ... These invaders from another planet are not strangers to the men inpower. It is on record that they are inhuman monsters capable of killingwithout mercy--yet they are quite ordinary in appearance. They walk thestreets, unsuspected, among us. It is on record right here in Washingtonthat these creatures are not human but, rather, soulless androids,manufactured to destroy us, by a race so far ahead of us in scientificknowledge that we are like children by comparison ..."

  "Will the Senator yield to the Senator from Alabama?"

  "I will not. I refuse to be gagged in the process of acquainting theAmerican people with facts upon which their very survival depends."

  The floor was crowded now. The press and the visitors' galleries werepacked as Senator Crane's words continued to boom forth.

  And in the press gallery a reporter from the Sioux City _Clarion_ lookedat a representative of the London _Times_, and said, "Good God! He'sgone off his rocker!"

  The Englishman, aloof but definitely enthralled, touched his mustachedelicately and answered, "Quite."

  * * * * *

  Frank Corson rang the bell and waited at the door of Rhoda Kane'sapartment. The door opened. She wore a pale blue brunch coat. Her hairglowed in the light of midmorning, but her face was pale and a littledrawn.

  Her eyes were slightly red, as though she might have been crying.

  "Hello, Rhoda."

  "Hello, Frank."

  "I really didn't expect to find you. I was going to write a note andslip it under the door."

  "I didn't feel well today so I didn't go to work."

  "May I come in?"

  "Of course."

  Inside, a shadow of concern moved like a quick cloud across herbeautiful face. "You don't look well, Frank."

  "I'm quite all right, really. Haven't been sleeping too well, butthere's been a lot on my mind."

  "I've been hoping you'd phone."

  "I wanted to but there didn't seem to be anything to say. Nothing exceptthat I'm sorry I let you down so miserably."

  "Frank! You didn't. You really didn't. It was just that--oh, it's notimportant any more."

  "No. It's not important now."

  "Would you like a drink?"

  "Thanks, no. I've come to say good-bye."

  "Good-bye?"

  "Yes. I'm leaving Park Hill--leaving New York. I'm going into a smallMinnesota hospital to finish my internship. Then I'll probably practiceout there somewhere."

  Behind the new glitter of her eyes there was stark misery."Frank--Frank--what went wrong with us?"

  The appeal was a labored whisper.

  "I don't know, Rhoda. I should know but I don't. I should have knownwhat was wrong so I could have done something about it. It just wentsour, I guess."

  She turned and walked to the window. He wondered if there were tears inher eyes.

  "Good-bye, Rhoda."

  "Good-bye, Frank. I'm sorry."

  The door hadn't quite closed. Now, as Frank Corson turned, he found itopen. A man stood there--a man in a blue suit with empty eyes.

  Frank stared at the man for long seconds. His eyes went toward thewindow. Rhoda had turned. She was watching the man in the doorway,looking past Frank at the creature from somewhere in space who wasneither man nor machine. _But how--?_ Frank Corson asked himself thequestion. _Good God! How had this thing come about?_

  "Not--not _him_," he finally exploded.

  Rhoda was walking forward. The look of fevered excitement was in hereyes. "Please leave, Frank." She did not look at him as she spoke. Shekept her eyes on the man in the blue suit.

  "Not him!"

  "Please leave, Frank."

  But it was too late. The door had closed. The man was looking at Frank."Sit down," he said.

  Frank Corson sat down. He saw the man and he saw Rhoda, but they seemedunimportant. Something had happened to his mind and he was busystruggling with it. That was all that was important.

  The strange lethargy that came like a cloud over his mind was beyondunderstanding.

  * * * * *

  Captain Abrams looked into the closet and back at Brent Taber. His lipswere back a little off his teeth. With Abrams, this indicated anger.

  "All right. What does Washington do about this one? Does Washington tellus to be good little boys and go hand out parking tickets?"

  "It wasn't like that," Taber said.

  "It doesn't much matter how it was. The thing is--how is it going to benow?"

  "You got a murder, friend. Plain and simple. What do the New York policedo when they get a murder?"

  Abrams spoke bitterly. "Sometimes they let a panel truck drive in andhaul the body away and that's that."

  "Let's save the sarcasm until later. I called you in. It's your case.What do you want me to do?"

  "Talk a little, maybe. The other one--now this one. The same killer?"

  "I think so."

  "What does he look like?"

  "Medium height. One-eighty. Around forty. And dangerous."

  "Dangerous, he says," Abrams muttered. "Any idea where we might go tohave a little talk with him?"

  "No, can't say that I have."

  "Try the streets of Manhattan--is that it?"

  "I guess that's about it." Taber paused. "Wait a minute. If he's lookingfor a spot to hide in he wouldn't come back here and he certainlywouldn't try King's room. There's just a wide-open chance he might haveanother location. Wait a minute while I look up an address."

  * * * * *

  An hour after he'd finished delivering his speech on the floor of theSenate, Crane held a press conference in one of Washington's mostimportant hotels. The place was crowded. He stood on a platform, lookedout over a sea of
heads, and pointed at an upraised hand for the firstquestion.

  "Senator, have you gotten any reaction from the people of your state onthe revelations contained in your speech?"

  "There has been very little time, but telegrams have been pouring in."

  "What is the reaction?"

  "Frankly, I haven't had time to read them. However, I think there islittle doubt as to the mood of my people. They will be indignant andangry at Washington bungling."

  He pointed to another hand.

  "Senator, granting the details you outlined are accurate, have you anyknowledge as to--"

  "Young man. _Every_ detail I outlined was completely accurate." SenatorCrane withered the reporter with a hostile look and pointed elsewhere.

  "Senator, did you consult with the people responsible for handling thesituation before making your speech?"

  "I tried. I was willing to co-operate in every way, but my patience ranout. Also, I was alarmed at the bungling and inefficiency I saw. Forthat reason I went straight to the people with my story."

  "Senator, I have a wire from the governor of your state. It just arrivedin response to my query as to his attitude on this affair. The governorsays, quote, _No comment_, unquote. Would _you_ care to comment on hisstatement?"

  Senator Crane thought he heard a faint ripple of mirth drift across theroom. But, of course, he had to be mistaken. "I think the governorreplied wisely. I expect to return home and confer with him as soon aspossible."

  "Senator, can you explain why, out of all the able, sincere officials inWashington, D.C., elected or otherwise, you were the only one withenough wisdom and courage to put this matter before the people?"

  "Young man, I am not going to pass judgment on anyone in Washington orelsewhere. Each of us, I'm sure, does his duty as he sees it."

  Again it seemed to Senator Crane that he heard a ripple of mirth--louderthis time. It had to be something to do with the acoustics. Except thathe was suddenly aware of smiles, too. The next question had to do withpossible consultation with Russia on the matter of the coming spaceinvasion.

  Senator Crane agreed that such consultation should be made and thenretired hastily into seclusion. A touch of panic hit him. He felt like aman who was far out in the water without a boat, with the closest land afew hundred feet straight down. Good God! Had he miscalculated? Ofcourse not. He had only to await the verdict of the nation's topnewspapers before proceeding with the publicity program that might wellmake him presidential timber.

  * * * * *

  John Dennis, for the first time since Rhoda had known him, seemednervous. He kept licking his lips and shifting his eyes from Rhoda toFrank Corson.

  Frank Corson sat quietly, keeping his thoughts to himself. Rhoda crossedto the liquor cabinet and poured a double Scotch. She went to the sofaand sat down a little uncertainly.

  "I guess you two haven't met. John, this is Frank Corson."

  John Dennis paid no attention. He walked to the sofa, sat down, and tooka sheaf of notes from his jacket pocket.

  "I've known Mr. Dennis for quite some time," Frank commented wryly.

  "Be quiet."

  John Dennis' tone was neither hostile nor friendly. They were the wordsof a person whose mind was on other things. They watched him as his eyesscanned the notes.

  He appeared to be memorizing them.

  The air became somewhat electric, the silence so deep it seemed toscream. Rhoda looked across at Frank Corson. Frank's expression wasempty, as though he'd suffered some traumatic emotional blow and wasstruggling to recover.

  John Dennis stirred. He also appeared to be struggling. He turned hiseyes on the drink Rhoda was holding. He took it out of her hand anddowned it in a single gulp.

  They watched as he went back to work, leafing through the notes, one ata time. As he came close to the end, he lifted his head and shook itviolently, as though from sudden pain. He scowled at the empty glasshe'd handed back to Rhoda.

  "Do you want another?" she inquired.

  "Give me another."

  She poured a second Scotch and handed it to him. He drank it like somuch water.

  The last sheet of notations was covered. Then John Dennis sat motionlessfor a minute, his frown and uncertainty returning. "It's hard to projectthe details," he said. "All this detail. Difficult."

  He dropped the last sheet and got up and poured himself another Scotch."They will make an army now," he said. The Scotch went down smoothly. Hewent to the window and looked out. "This planet is different. The sunthere is blue and the air is very thin. Their bodies are nothing, buttheir heads are very big. Now they will create an army and take thisplanet."

  Frank Corson was shaking his head slowly like a groggy fighter. Rhodasat huddled on the sofa, her mind such a mixture of tumbling emotionsthat it seemed to be trying to tear itself out of her head. John Denniscame back and stood in the middle of the room. He swayed drunkenly. "Somany things I don't understand. I see people I know--or I should know.I--" He turned his eyes--eyes no longer empty--on Rhoda.

  "I want to make love!"

  Frank Corson got up from his chair and hurled himself on Dennis.

  Rhoda screamed.

  * * * * *

  Senator Crane sat at his desk. There were a pile of newspapers in frontof him. The first one carried a front page story with the headline:

  SENATOR CRANE WARNS OF SPACE INVASION

  SHADES OF ORSON WELLS' MARTIAN SCARE STALKS CAPITOL CORRIDORS.

  Crane tossed the paper aside listlessly and picked up the second one:

  SENATORS VOICE CONCERN FOR SANITY OF COLLEAGUE

  CRANE IN STUNNING TIRADE WARNS OF SCIENCE-FICTION DISASTER.

  The third paper featured an internationally syndicated columnist, famousfor his biting wit:

  * * * * *

  Senator Crane today launched a one-man campaign to make Americaspace-conscious. If there was any Madison Avenue thinking behind thelaunching it was certainly lower Madison Avenue.

  In order to make his point--exactly what this was confused a vastroomful of newspapermen--the Senator invented a race of creatures calledandroids. These androids, it seems, look exactly like Tom Smith down theblock except that they'd just as soon cut your throat as not.

  We fear the Senator must have been watching the wrong televisionshows--knives yet, ugh!--possibly _Jim Bowie_, because there wasn't aray gun nor a disintegrator in his whole bag of exhibits.

  All in all, it would appear that the project was pointed toward makingthe people Senator Crane-conscious rather than aiming their attention atthe deadly heavens.

  * * * * *

  Senator Crane put that paper aside and looked at the next. This one,more so than all the rest, was completely factual:

  SENATOR CRANE DELUGED WITH WIRES FROM HOME

  CONSTITUENTS CLAIM WASHINGTON RIDICULE HEAPED ON SENATOR REFLECTS AGAINST STATE.

  Crane dropped the paper and got up from the desk. That son-of-a-bitch Taber was to blame for this. Shaping up a goddamn hoax and feeding it out piecemeal. By God--!

  He went to the desk and dialed, and when the answer came he said,"Halliday? Senator Crane here. I want to have a little talk with youabout that damned tape. It's pretty obvious now that Taber planted it ina deliberate attempt to ... What's that? An appointment! Why, goddamnit, who the hell do you think you are?.... Fifteen minutes nextWednesday? You're talking to a United States Senator--"

  But Crane was no longer talking to Halliday. He had hung up.

  Crane dialed another number. A pleasant female voice said, "MatthewPorter's office."

  "This is Senator Crane. Put Porter on."

  "Just a moment."

  Crane waited. He waited for what seemed like ages, but a glance at hiswatch told him it had been less than five minutes. He disconnected anddialed again.

  "This is Crane. We got cut off. I want to talk to Porter."


  "I'm sorry but Mr. Porter has gone for the day."

  "Well, where can I reach him? It's important."

  "I'm sorry. Mr. Porter left no number."

  "When will he be back?"

  "He didn't say."

  Crane slammed the phone down. "The bastards!" he snarled. "The lousy,crummy bastards. Running like a pack of scared rats. Bureaucrats!Damned, cowardly, self-appointed opportunists!"

  He stopped cursing and sat for a while.

  When he got up and left the office he looked and felt old but he hadfaced a truth. It would not be necessary to campaign next year.

  It wouldn't be of any use.