by Anthology
"Can't say that I have."
"Kendrick, down at Penton Technological Institute, has done some remarkable things in drawing the stuff of human emotion from one person, holding it on a tape, and transferring it to another person."
"On the face of it, that sounds ridiculous."
"Doesn't it? Nevertheless, the vibrations set up, or created you might say, by a person in anger, consist of some sort of stuff—in the sense of an incredibly high frequency wave. Radio or television waves are the best comparisons.
"Kendrick, in one demonstration, took a young man who was very much in love with a certain young lady. A really love-sick lad. He placed him in the recording unit gave him the young lady's picture, and told him to let his mind dwell on her to the exclusion of all else."
Doctor Entman smiled briefly. "This, I imagine, wasn't difficult for the lad to do. Entman then put another young man, one who was unacquainted with the girl, into a receiving unit and exposed him, after giving him the girl's picture, to the vibrations created by the lovelorn chap. Later, they saw to it that the second lad was introduced to the girl. The results were rather startling, in that the young lady suddenly had two ardent suitors in place of one."
Brent Taber scratched his ear and looked dubious. "That sounds pretty sensational. But maybe the second lad just plain happened to fall in love with the girl by natural processes."
"True, but the experiments tended to eliminate that possibility. Other emotions were tested. How about a man walking up to a man he'd never seen before in his life and busting him in the nose?"
"Okay, okay. Then you think—"
"I think a lot of things. Here, I see the possibility of a race with superior science, having moved far ahead of us in the directions Kendrick is pointing toward in his research. For instance, with more advanced knowledge and know-how, they've probably been able to charge a synthetic body with a complete set of functioning emotional responses. Grant them that and we can also concede a tailor-made ego."
"I don't mind admitting I'm scared, Doctor," Brent Taber said.
"I think it's a time to be scared."
"But if a race of people were that advanced, if their intention is hostile, why do they pussyfoot around this way? Why don't they just come down and take us over?"
"I've wondered that, too. And yet, a race on some planet out there in the universe might not evolve according to what we consider a logical pattern."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean that while they can create a synthetic man, their interests, and therefore their progress, may have stayed in peaceful channels. For instance, they may not have bothered with anything as elementary as the atom bomb."
"It's a thought."
"A wishful thought, I'll admit. But it does have some validity. Also, it has a fact of some possible value to back it up."
"What fact?"
"That they haven't come down and taken us over."
"You almost cheer me, Doctor. Almost, but not quite."
"Actually," Entman said, "I've been wondering about something else."
"What's that?"
"When and how they came here before."
"You mean, where did they get the model for the ten androids?"
"Yes. They had to have not only a model, but also some knowledge concerning our geographical and atmospheric conditions. The two hearts indicate that they knew the elements contained in our air—the pressures and so forth necessary to our existence—and were unable to construct a working model that would function under our conditions with a single heart. So they put in two."
"It looks as though they missed on some other things, too. Seven of the androids have expired."
Entman shrugged. "Still—a remarkable job, particularly since they would have no chance for a trial-and-error test under the conditions that would prevail. It's surprising that any of the androids were able to keep functioning."
"The eighth one is pretty sick. He may be gone by now. And about their earlier coming, I can give you one point. They came quietly, probably at night, grabbed their model, and moved out fast."
"How do you know that?"
"Because, obviously, they think all men on earth look alike. Or, at least, we can assume that. Else how did they expect to get away with ten identical androids?"
Entman's eyes widened. "I never thought of that," he muttered.
* * * * *
Senator Crane, a doggedly determined man, had listened to the replay of Brent Taber's top-secret conference again and again. In the comfortable rationalization of which he was capable, his whole zeal and hostility were fashioned around Brent's "arrogant disregard of democratic processes." Who did this bureaucrat think he was? Did he consider himself smarter than the People? Did he feel they couldn't be trusted with revelations affecting their survival? Well, by God, they'd been trusted with word of the bomb and its implications, and they'd reacted admirably. So they were entitled to frankness concerning this new threat to their security.
Of course, Senator Crane reserved the right to enlighten them in his own time and in his own way. After all, hadn't they elected him and thus given him leeway to use his own judgment in their best interests?
But who the hell had elected Brent Taber?
Nobody.
So Crane listened to the recording and picked out what he classified as the key lines.
A routine autopsy revealed some peculiar things … The man had two hearts….
The blood? Could it have been a new kind of plasma?…
All in all, gentlemen, eight identical specimens have been picked up in various American cities …
Exactly alike….
Crane ran through the rest of it and threw himself moodily into a chair. The idiots! The stupid unelected, self-appointed guardians of democracy! Not once—not once, mind you—had a single one of these great brains referred to the obvious.
It was a Russian plot!
All those allusions to the extraterrestrial was so much bilge. The Russians were infiltrating the country with synthetic men. This meant—oh, God—it meant that in a short time Russia would be able to create an army of these monsters and overwhelm the world.
Senator Crane sprang to his feet and measured his indignation in long strides across the thick, expensive carpeting on his floor. The traitor! The sheer, compulsive opportunist! That was certainly all that Brent Taber could be called. Using this deadly situation as a means of furthering his own interests.
Senator Crane deliberately stilled his rage and objectively considered what he should do about it. With the obvious source of the androids logically deduced, there was only his own defensive procedures to be considered. And they had to be considered carefully. As he saw himself, he stood alone, against a group of bumbling idiots, with the future of the nation at stake. What to do?
The key question, of course, was: How soon will Russia be able to mount an army? Probably not very soon, he decided. That fact gave him time to ferret out more information; to become completely sure of himself.
One thing you had to realize about the American public—or about any mass of humanity, for that matter—a thing of importance had to be presented dramatically. This, in a sense, was the duty of the elected public servant—to recognize this somewhat childish failing of the average intelligence and make allowances for it. You can do this, of course, Senator Crane told himself, when you love the people.
And, fortunately for their survival, Senator Crane loved the American people.
So, for a few moments, he o'erleaped the hard work ahead and saw the goal—envisioned the headlines:
SENATOR CRANE UNCOVERS DEADLY PERIL TO THE NATION
Due entirely to the patriotic, selfless efforts of one United States Senator, the nation has been warned in time of….
SENATOR CRANE STUNS CONGRESS AND THE NATION WITH HIS REVELATIONS
Standing alone on the rostrum, a heroic figure pitted, as it were, against all the sinister forces that bore from within, one valiant United States Senator
….
Crane had dropped back into his chair. His eyes had closed, the better to visualize a grateful nation expending their plaudits.
And because he was a man who used a great deal of energy in pursuing an objective, he tired at times. He became drowsy now….
… And went gently to sleep.
5
"Doctor Corson. Calling Doctor Corson. Please come to the second-floor reception room."
Frank Corson got the call as he was leaving the maternity ward. He took the elevator down and found a rather sloppily dressed, middle-aged man sitting on a lounge beside a weather-beaten camera that tended to mark his profession.
"I'm Les King, a free-lance news photographer. You're Doctor Corson?"
Frank Corson's reaction was slightly hostile. He wondered why. "I'm Doctor Corson."
"I'm on the trail of a patient that came here late last night. Name, William Matson. They tell me he was your patient."
Frank nodded briefly.
"They say he was released."
"That's right."
"A little over an hour ago."
"Right."
"They say he had a broken leg."
"If that's what they said, it must be a matter of record."
"Well, they're wrong on both counts. He came to see me over three hours ago—and both his legs were as good as mine."
Frank Corson did not volunteer the information that he had personally taken William Matson to his furnished room in Greenwich Village and that Matson was there at this very moment, awaiting Frank's return.
"I think there must be some mistake on your part," Frank said.
"No mistake. But something very definitely got crossed up. Maybe we ought to have a little talk—the two of us."
Anger stirred in Frank Corson. Did this Les King character think a beaten-up camera gave him the right to walk in and make demands. "I'm busy now. And I can't see what we'd have to talk about."
"A hell of a lot, maybe. There are some things you may not know about this deal. You might have let a big thing slip through your fingers."
"Look here, I'm not interested in anything you've got to say. And I think you've got a hell of a nerve, coming in here and cross-examining me on something that's—"
King reacted with weary patience. "Take it easy. I'm just trying to get some information that can help both of us, maybe."
"How could it possibly help me?"
"To make it simple, there's a standing ten-thousand-dollar reward for knowledge of the whereabouts of a Judge Sam Baker who disappeared ten years ago from a little upstate New York town. Now, if you aren't interested—"
"Are you telling me that William Matson is Sam Baker?"
"Let's say a hell of a lot indicates it. Matson left here without giving a home address. If you know what it is, we can do business. If you don't—"
"I'm off duty in an hour," Frank Corson said. "Maybe we should talk it over."
"That's better. In the meantime, if you'll tell me where I can find Matson—"
Frank smiled. "Wait an hour. Then I'll show you. But we'll talk about it first."
* * * * *
The tenth android, one of the two so earnestly sought after by Brent Taber, had observed the accident at 59th Street and Park Avenue on the previous night. He'd stood on the curb, lost in the crowd that gathered, and had watched the proceedings carefully. A man who was not a man, a machine that was not a machine, he incorporated, in many respects, the best qualities of both. Now, as the leader of the group deposited from space for a specific purpose, he exhibited these qualities excellently.
He waited. He observed. He added the accident to the several other unforeseen incidents that endangered the project and its objective, and stored them in his memory-bank.
He watched the minor drama as it unfolded, and what was somewhat akin to a danger bell went off in his mind when he saw a bright flash, traced its source to a camera, and carefully studied the man who had taken the picture. Pictures, he knew, could be dangerous. He must get his hands on the picture, if possible.
He waited. He observed. He evaluated. The situation had gotten somewhat out of his control, but he did not blame himself for this. Certain emotions had been made a part of his being, but guilt, a useless one, had been omitted, as had been any ability to react to love, compassion, anger or hatred.
So, with no hope of reward or fear of punishment, he had recorded the facts that he had been unable to communicate telepathically with eight of the units under his command and that, therefore, they were no longer operational. He had no way of knowing what had happened to them. This, however, did not make his work one bit less vital. Even though eight units were unaccounted for, his intelligent handling of the ninth android, and of himself, was still vitally important. It was up to him to see that the project was brought to a successful conclusion.
He watched as the ambulance came, noted the name of the hospital, and recorded the proceedings. But he allowed the ambulance to drive away, keeping his attention pointed at the man who had taken the picture.
When the man moved off down the street, the tenth android followed. When the man entered Central Park, he was observed from a discreet distance. When he came out again, he was followed into Times Square, down into Greenwich Village, back uptown and, finally, to an apartment building in the West Seventies. There he was observed opening a mailbox, and the name thereon was duly recorded.
At this point, temporarily entrusting King to destiny, the tenth android took a taxicab to the Park Hill Hospital where he entered, went to the desk, and inquired about a friend of his, a William Matson.
He was directed to Emergency where a nurse, after checking a record sheet on her piled-up desk, told him that Doctor Corson was with the patient in Ward Five. Unaware that he had been extremely lucky, that very few real people—people with only one heart, and a soul to go with it—would have gotten such specific information out of a receiving-desk nurse, the tenth android began counting wards until he came to the one marked Five.
He looked in through the small window in the swinging door and saw his counterpart in bed, a white-coated man bending over him.
That made the ninth android unapproachable, so his counterpart-leader withdrew to the end of the corridor and waited until Doctor Corson came out. He followed Corson outside and, from the back seat of another taxi, never lost sight of the convertible until Rhoda Kane drove it into the garage under her apartment building. From the street, the tenth android saw Rhoda and Frank enter the elevator. As soon as the door closed, he was in the outer lobby, watching as the numbers progressed upward on the elevator dial. The hand stopped at 21. This was noted and recorded, after which the tenth android called a finish to the night's activities and retired to the small room he'd rented on a quiet street on the Lower East Side where, if you bothered no one, no one would bother you.
He was back the next morning, however, and that's when his unavoidable contact with Frank Corson on the sidewalk was made. He noted the surprise on Corson's face, but the logical situation did not develop because Corson did not make an issue of the meeting. He allowed the tenth android to go on his way.
A nonsynthetic man would have wondered at this and thanked his own good luck. Not so with the android. He knew nothing whatever about luck. He accepted this bit of good fortune in exactly the same manner he would have faced its opposite, and when Frank Corson boarded a bus, a taxicab pulled out of a side street and followed.
The cab waited, in front of the Park Hill Hospital. When Frank Corson and the ninth android emerged, two cabs, not one, wheeled down Manhattan and into Greenwich Village.
Thus it was that some ten minutes after Frank Corson went back to his duties at the Park Hill Hospital, there was a knock on the door of his room in Greenwich Village. The ninth android opened the door. The tenth android entered. The ninth android hobbled back to his chair and waited quietly.
The tenth android looked both ways in the corridor and then closed the door. He walked to the chair a
nd stood looking down. He turned his eyes to the bulky, cast-encased leg. "It will not heal," he stated matter-of-factly.
The ninth android nodded. "I—know."
"That makes you useless."
Another nod. "Why couldn't they have made it possible for our flesh and bone to become whole again after an—accident?"
"That wasn't possible."
The tenth android went to a tiny curtained-off kitchenette and returned with a knife. He put his hand on the head of the ninth android and drew it backward so that the neck muscles were taut. He raised the knife.
Then he paused and looked down with a faint expression of interest in his otherwise empty eyes. "Are you afraid to die?"
"I don't—know. What is it to—die?"
"You become nonfunctioning."
"I think I would rather not become nonfunctioning."
The tenth android cut the ninth android's throat. Carefully and cleanly, he severed the big artery that carried the blood-fluid back down to the upper heart.
The blood-fluid spouted out and drained down over the chest of the ninth android. He shuddered. His eyes closed. When the tenth android released his grip, the head fell forward.
And from somewhere in the synthetically created mind of the tenth android there came a question: Was it undesirable to become nonfunctioning? The human was afraid to die. He sensed this but not the reason for it, if there was one. The human was afraid to die.
He wondered only momentarily, vaguely recorded it as a mistake to wonder about such things, and then crossed the room and put the red-stained knife into the sink.
After that, he let himself quietly out of the apartment and walked off down the street.
He had much to do. He had to leave town and finish the project alone.
Then, quite suddenly, he stopped, stepped into a nearby doorway and stood motionless. There was no change in his expression except that possibly his eyes became a shade emptier.
After a while he left the doorway and moved on. But it was with new purpose and with new plans.
The new orders, relayed across a light-year of space, were not intercepted by any terrestrial receiving device, however sensitive. But they were received and recorded perfectly in the mind of the tenth android.