Ten From Infinity

  9

  The man had sallow skin; the look of a consumptive. He sat in a chairbeside Crane's desk and dropped the ash from his cigar on Crane'swall-to-wall carpeting. Crane scowled, but let it pass.

  "All right. Dorfman, what have you got to show for the money I've paidyou?"

  Dorfman, an old hand at confidential snooping, refused to quail beforethe much-publicized senatorial scowl. "It's tough putting on a hunt whenyou're not quite sure what you're after."

  "I told you what I wanted. I wanted you to watch for any New Yorkcontacts Brent Taber might be using at the present time. That's simpleenough, isn't it?"

  "Taber contacts a lot of people. And he's a dangerous man to tail. Heknows all the tricks."

  "Are you telling me he caught you following him? If he did, you're nolonger of any value to me."

  "He didn't spot me," Dorfman said. "I followed him to New York and kepttabs on a Manhattan office, one he uses as his headquarters there."

  "A directory check would tell me that."

  "Take it easy. I staked out the place all day yesterday. Five menentered and left. Four were his own men."

  Crane made a notation on a pad. He knew about those men. They'd beenpulled off Taber's staff without notice. No doubt they'd made their lastreport to Taber and had headed back to Washington for reassignment.Dorfman would not know this, of course.

  Or so Crane thought. Dorfman smiled as though he'd read Crane's mind andsaid, "I think Taber's losing his staff. They were government men--fourof them--reporting in or out. My guess was _out_." He peered keenly atCrane for a moment. "Who's slicing away at Taber behind his back?"

  "That's none of your--look here, Dorfman, I can get a better man thanyou at half the price!"

  "No, you can't," Dorfman said easily. "Like I told you, there were five.The other one turned out to be a Doctor Frank Corson, an intern at ParkHill Hospital in Manhattan."

  Crane made another quick notation. A Manhattan doctor. One of theandroids had been found in the East River with its throat slit and abroken leg. Now a doctor had contacted Taber. Was there a connection?Somehow, Crane had to get on the track of the tenth android Taber washunting. Cutting the ground out from under Taber had been a satisfyingvictory but it wasn't enough. To be of service to his electorate,Senator Crane realized, he had to have something tangible in the way ofevidence. The only way to get this was to ferret out Taber's contactsand locate the tenth android himself, or at least be there when Taberlocated the creature.

  A man of supreme confidence in his destiny, Crane had been working onthe speech he would make when he was ready for the _I accuse_ scene fromthe Senate floor. He had even gone so far as to alert a fashionableWashington hotel to be ready with a suite at a moment's notice. Cranefelt his office would be far too small to handle the traffic that wouldresult from his revelation.

  It did not occur to Crane to compliment Dorfman on his skill as anoperative, for getting the book so completely and swiftly on a casualvisitor to Taber's office. He said, "You've got this doctor's address?"

  Dorfman put a folded slip of paper on the desk. "Another little itemI'll throw in as a bonus. Taber had another tail--here in Washington."

  This disturbed Crane. Did he have competition in the matter of theandroid? Was someone else trying to get into the act?

  "A New York free-lance photographer named King. I didn't have to checkon him. I recognized him. He's been around Manhattan for years."

  "A photographer. What do you suppose he's up to?"

  "No way of telling, at the moment. Want me to switch to him?"

  "No. Stay on Taber. There's more chance there."

  Dorfman got up from his chair, stepping on the ashes as he did so andground them into the rug. "Okay, I'll report tomorrow."

  After Dorfman left, Crane pondered the situation. Were the Russiansbehind this? Somehow, he was beginning to doubt it. And this dismayedhim somewhat. He was enough of a realist to know that even a possibleinvasion from outer space--if that talk hadn't been a cover-up--wouldnot carry the power of a Russian plot.

  A space invasion? Too science-fictional. It had been done by H. G. Wellsand God knew how many other writers. Break a yarn like that and nobodywould believe it. Still, if he could get his hands on the evidence.

  He scowled as he contemplated the one stone wall he hadn't been able topenetrate. No connection he had, no contact, would reveal the secretlaboratory where the dissection of the androids had taken place, or thespecialist who'd done the job. Porter might give it to him in exchangefor a guarantee of the hydroelectric post. But Crane suspected that evenPorter did not have this information. The higher you went in thesetop-secret projects, the more silence and stubbornness you found. Themen up above, it seemed, were never as open to discussion as were thelower-echelon eager beavers. They indulged in horse-trading and playedpolitics to a certain extent, but the lines of demarcation were sharper.That was why he could get Taber discredited, even crippled. But knockinga man of his proven ability completely out was another matter. The menon the top floor measured a lot of evidence before they acted.

  But the body of one of the androids--there should be a way--there had tobe a way.

  Suddenly Crane smiled. Then he chuckled. Then he took an address bookout of his desk drawer and thumbed through the pages.

  * * * * *

  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 anygood."

  Rhoda sat beautifully poised, a picture of sophisticated perfection. Shewore an obviously expensive costume featured by lounging slacks thatcould have been molded to her body. The afternoon sun glinted on ahairdo right out of _Vogue_ or _Harper's Bazaar_. Her expression wasdistant; a look of impersonal pity showed on her face as she regardedFrank.

  "Tell me about it, sweetie."

  Frank cringed inwardly at the appellation. In Manhattan, everyone calledeveryone 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 moreinformation."

  Rhoda frowned. "You _demanded_? Frank! I'm disappointed in you. Theindignant 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 herhand. "What did you say to him?"

  "I was just telling you. I said that with a man killed in my room I hada right to some protection. I--"

  "Protection! What did you do? Ask the man to hide you? Why didn't youget down on your knees and beg his pardon for living?"

  Frustrated anger made Corson's lips tremble. "I did the best I could! Itold him that if I couldn't find out from him what was going on, I'd goto the New York police. I told him I had a right to know about theseandroids."

  "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 weretortured. He ran a helpless hand along his jaw.

  "All right, Rhoda. All right. If this is the way you want it, there'snothing I can do."

  "What do you mean--the way I want it? All I've been trying to do is puta little courage into you? Didn't Taber tell you a thing about theandroids?"

  "He wasn't as brutal as I made it sound. In fact, he's a rather nice guyin a tough spot."

  "I'm sure of that, but we couldn't care less. What did he say about theandroids?"

  A new, desperate wariness had been born in Frank Corson. He could takeonly so much and now he regarded Rhoda with a hostility of his own. "Ashort time ago you hooted the android idea. What changed you?"

  "I use it as a term of identification! Good heavens! You act like achild. 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 fearflashed into her eyes. Then it vanished behind a wall of def
iance.

  "Are you out of your mind? Why would I have any interest in this messexcept 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 downat her, and when he spoke there was a change in his manner. Now therewas 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 achild as you seem to think. Subjectiveness does make a person sound andact that way at times. This is a reflection of inner confusion andbewilderment. I'll admit I'm confused and bewildered. But I'm gettingyour message, too. I think you're telling me that whatever has happenedto you is none of my business. Very well. You know where to find me ifyou need me."

  He was walking toward the door, his back turned, so he did not see themute appeal in Rhoda's face. "Frank--!"

  He had opened the door and turned. "I'm sorry, Rhoda. I thought we hadsomething. 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, tookseveral steps toward the door, and stopped. A wordless cry rose withinher and came out as a miserable little kitten whimper.

  But then she stiffened. The moment of panic passed. She straightened andtouched a displaced lock of hair. The warmth of the new excitement shelived with gushed anew, and the bright, nervous smile touched her lips.

  She went over, made herself a drink and went to the window. She lookeddown. He was out there somewhere, going about his mysterious business.The smile she thought of as soft and tender was really brittle and quitehard. She downed her drink thirstily as though it helped quench thefever in her throat.

  She put the glass down and heard a whisper: "John, John, why don't youcome 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 sourcesof satisfaction in any sense. Most of them were memos noting changes inthe departmental assignments of staff men: _Due to unforeseenemergencies and the reassessment of current workloads it has becomenecessary 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, whichwas 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 racestanding off somewhere in space, they're only a bunch of paper tigersand to hell with it. Or maybe they wish us only the best. Maybe--

  The door opened. Marcia Holly pushed her head in. "Have you eatenanything today?"

  "Get lost, sweetheart," Brent said absently.

  "Maybe you look on eating as a bad habit, like sleeping, but it would benice to avoid a breakdown and stay out of the hospital, too."

  "You're such a pleasant person to have around, except when you get upoff your chair and start making noises like a woman."

  "Just to accommodate you, I'll change my sex. But right now, there's aman 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'dmind." Brent Taber sighed. "All right. Send him in."

  The man was small, ingrown and, as Brent Taber learned, somewhatstubborn.

  "My name is Charles Blackwell," he said. "My brother has been lost forover 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 ofdepression. Kind of a maniac-depressive."

  "_Manic_-depressive," Taber corrected gently.

  "Yeah, that kind, ah--kind of. Well anyhow, he hides from us sometimesand we worry."

  "Who sent you to me?"

  Charles Blackwell waved a vague hand, "Oh, they told me you were the manto see."

  "Tell me their names," Brent said politely. "I'd like to thank thempersonally."

  "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 havebroken a leg or something, maybe, and it seems you--well, you kind ofturned out to be the man to see about it." Charles Blackwell waved thepaper. "With this."

  _Good lord_, Taber groaned inwardly. _This thing is turning into a comicopera--plain slapstick._

  "And why am I the man to see?"

  "Because they said you knew about a man with a broken leg who got killedor something."

  "They said that?"

  "Uh-huh, and if you'd just let me see the man, I could tell in a jiffywhether he's Jack or not."

  It had been a pretty long speech and Charles Blackwell seemed happy toget 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 theGoddamnedest phony I've met this week."

  "They said you'd say that, but all I want is to see the man and thenI'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. Evidentlythey'd told him it wouldn't be as easy as this. They must have told himit would be as hard as hell, because he stared at Brent as though thelatter hadn't played fair.

  Brent reached into a drawer and took out a glossy photo. He pushed itacross the desk. Charles Blackwell craned his neck, looked, and saw whatappeared 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, allright."

  "How do you know?"

  "I can tell."

  "You can?"

  Charles Blackwell got a little indignant. "Of course, I can. Don't youthink 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 getout of my office before I send for the man who uses the broom aroundhere."

  Charles Blackwell was more comfortable now--more confident. "That's whatthey told me you'd say, so they gave me this to bring. It's a courtorder signed by a judge who sits in a court and listens to people'sbeefs about getting pushed around and does something about it."

  Brent Taber took the paper and peered at the signature. "It figures," hesaid 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 sometimeshe'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 toallow him this privilege. _All I need_, Brent thought, _is acourt-defiance rap charged against me. Is that what Crane is trying toget? Did he expect me to throw this creep out of my office and leavemyself wide open? Maybe, maybe not. If not, what is Crane after? He'scertainly achieved his purpose in getting even with an upstartgovernment appointee._

  "Okay," Brent Taber said decisively. "You can have the body. Come withme."

  He got up, put on his hat, and strode out through the reception room andinto the corridor. Charles Blackwell came scuttling along behind. Brentigno
red the elevators and went through a door marked _Stairway_ andstarted down at a fast clip. Charles Blackwell came clopping alongbehind.

  Six flights lower down, Blackwell gasped, "Why don't we use theel--elevator?"

  Brent ignored him and went down seventeen more flights. CharlesBlackwell was livid when they reached the bottom.

  "For Christ sake--!"

  Taber walked to the curb and dived out into traffic. Blackwell plungedout after him, horns snarling and general indignation ruling above thechaos.

  They reached the opposite curb through some obscure miracle, withBlackwell hanging on grimly until Taber pushed a door open and plungedinto a thick odor of formaldehyde.

  "Have you still got that court order?" Taber asked as though hopeful ofa negative answer.

  Blackwell held it up triumphantly. A few minutes later, he was gapingdown 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 thepicture.

  "Not quite. Anyhow, it ain't Jack."

  The mystified Dr. Entman eyed Taber quizzically. "What's this allabout?"

  Taber jerked a thumb in the direction of Blackwell. "The eleventhandroid," 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 onthe corner, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath. When he opened hiseyes 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 strangerhere myself."

  "That man you entered this building with--what business did you havewith him?"

  It should have occurred to Charles Blackwell that this was none of thestranger's business, but it didn't. That thought came later but, at themoment, as he looked into the man's oddly empty eyes, his questionseemed entirely justified.

  "Well, you see, my brother Jack bothers us, kind of. He getsmanic-depressive spells."

  "What did that have to do with Brent Taber?"

  "We thought maybe my brother broke his leg and then dropped dead or--orsomething. Anyhow, I got this here court order--they gave it to me--andI showed it to Taber--"

  "Who are _they_?"

  Blackwell felt strangely excited. He felt as though this man were afriend, although he didn't know quite why.

  "Well, you see I've been around a long time. I run errands and thingsfor Senator Crane. I'm confidential to him, you understand, because Inever talk. I always keep my mouth shut. So he trusts me and he gave methis 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, BrentTaber showed me this here guy all cut up and I said it wasn't Jackand--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 tellingyou, 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 awayabruptly and was now disappearing around the corner.

  "I wonder what the hell he wanted?" Blackwell asked plaintively. Then hehailed a cab and went to report to Senator Crane.

  * * * * *

  The tenth android stood with his back to the window in Les King's roomin Manhattan and said, "There is something I want you to do. If you arevery careful, you will succeed. If you succeed, there is a great deal ofmoney in it for you."

  The fear that grew in Les King when they were apart, the uneasy feelingthat maybe money wasn't the most important thing in the world, diedautomatically as John Dennis stared at him through those strangely emptyeyes.

  "Is it something I can handle?"

  "Yes." Dennis handed King a folded slip of paper. "I have written downan address there. It is in Washington, D.C. I want you to enter thosepremises--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 theandroids are. The man who is doing it must have reports. There must berecords that tell what was wrong with the androids. It must be put downsomewhere why they died."

  "Does it matter?"

  "It is a matter of vital importance. There will be much money for you ifyou 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 abouthow he got vital pictures of the project. His thinking had changed, butthis did not seem odd to him. All thought of functioning incounterespionage against the Russians had moved into the back of hismind. He was in the game now for the money. Oh was it that? Maybe he wasin it for the excitement. There was something in the man who calledhimself John Dennis that generated excitement. It was like living amelodrama. It tingled in the blood and took a man out of the drab worldwhere 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 lookedat you with those weird eyes, you just knew you couldn't fail.